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feoturing 



o HOY0I by £ 

HINRY KUTW 



4 iMRiawe 
WBIIWIOH 




ucing Specialist SaVs: 

SE WEIGHT 



Where 

It 

Shows 

Most 



MOST ANY 
PART OF 
THE 

BODY WITH 






TAKE OFF EXCESS WEIGHT! 



Don't Stay FAT — You Con Lose 
POUNDS and INCHES SAFELY 



Without Risking 
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Fiin 



A THRILLING 
PUBLICATION 

• 

VOL 4, NO. 2 
FALL 1952 



/k Book'Leng&h Scsence Fiction CSassic 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER .... HENRY KUTTNER 10 

Through eons of Time come Ardoth of Kyrlo, mobilizing the best 
intellects of mankind — in order to create a new civilization! 



Six New Short Stories 

SECOND CHANCE . . . . W. KUBILIUS & FLETCHER PRATT 88 

Humanity had lost its chance on Earth — where would it survive? 

ORPHAN OF SPACE DON WILCOX 97 

He had never set foot upon any planet until the present time 

THE HUNTERS ALFRED COPPEL 107 

Felti was a desperate fugitive — on a twisted, tortured planet 

GREENHORN HARRY STINE 111 

He'd reach Luna, all right, but there WERE two ways about it! 

THE QUESTION RALPH CARGHILL 120 

The riddle was a challenge which Man had to solve^-or perish 

SCIENCE CAN WAIT RAY CUMMINGS 129 

Was Professor Egbert Hale just a nonentity — or a true genius? 

Features 

COSMIC ENCORES A DEPARTMENT 6 

FIRST STOP: MARS OR VENUS? . . . NORMAN B. WILTSEY 9 



Cover Painting by EMSH 

“A Million Years to Conquer,*' Copyright, 19A0, by Better Publications, Inc., and 
originally published in Startling Stories for November, IBUO. 



N. L. PINES, Pub!isher; FANNY ELLSWORTH, Managing Editor 
ED ROFHEART, Art Director; SAMUEL MINES. Editor 

FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE published quarterly and copyright 1952 by Best Books, Inc., 1125 E. Valle 
Ave., Kokomo, Ind. Editorial and executive offices, 10 East -40th Street, New York 16, N. Y. Subscription: 
(12 issues), $3.00; single copies, $.25; foreign postage extra. Entered as second class matter at the 
post office at Kokomo, Ind. Material is submitted at risk of the sender and must be accompanied by self- 
addressed, stamped envelopes. Ail characters in stories and semi-fiction articles ewe fictitious. If the name 
of any living person or existing institution is : ;ed it is a coincidence. Fall, 1952. Printed in the U.S.A 



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HlRl’S WHY IT’S BlTTiR! 




A DEPARTMENT WHERE SCIENCE FICTION READERS AND THE EDITOR MEET 



T he next issue of FANTASTIC STORY 
MAGAZINE will appear in two months 
instead of three. This change from quarterly to 
bi-monthly reflects our steady rise in circula- 
tion and underlines our expressed policy of 
bringing you great science fiction novels you 
may have missed. 

If you are new to science fiction this will 
help fill in your background by introducing you 
to the classics of a recent yesterday. If you 
are an old hand you’ll want these issues, with 
tl^eir fine new illustrations, for your collection 
or for the sheer pleasure of re-reading them. 

Our own sources for stories are tremendous, 
but in addition we have not hesitated to step 
outside and pick up a good story, like SLAN, 
published in the Summer issue. This policy 
will be continued without favoring any parti- 
cular source except that which offers the best 
story at a given time. 

Stories Old and New 

There is also something of a controversy rag- 
ing at the moment among readers as to the 
proper vintage for a story’s selection. A 
vociferous group of stalwarts has been main- 
taining, with hammer and tongs, that the old 
stories are better than the modern. Our files go 
clear back to Gernsback days when science fic- 
tion, as we now recognize it, was just getting 
started. And the adherents of the old continue 
to clamor for the Gernsback stories, sending us 
lists of titles they would like to see printed. 

To follow this procedure would make life 
very simple for the editorial staff. A huge 
amount of reading, evaluating and considering 
could be eliminated, or slashed to the bone. 
But to us the problem is not that simple. The 
mere fact that a story is old does not automati- 
cally make it a classic. Over and over again 
we have had the experience of going back to 
read a book or story which we remembered 



with reverence, only to be disappointed and 
amazed at the changes time had made. Science 
has moved, the times have changed, our stand- 
ards are different, our sophistication of a dif- 
ferent order. The things which were 'terrific 
once are mild today. 

Once upon a time a science-fiction story was 
exciting if the hero merely built a space ves.sel 
and took off for the moon. The thought itself 
was so novel and provocative that it carried 
the whole story. Who needed plot, characteri- 
zation, dialogue, good writing? The story flew 
on its rocket jets. But today rockets are not 
quite so new. The idea of flying to the moon 
is no longer so revolutionary. A story which 
offers this and nothing more falls flat. And 
too many of the real old-time yarns have this 
trouble. 

So the editors of FSM have refused, despite 
some very persuasive talkers amongst the fans, 
to limit themselves. We have no prejudices 
against stories merely because of their age. We 
offer a much more' liberal policy ; We will use 
any story which is good, which stands up to a 
reasonable level of writing and human values, 
not to mention still plausible scientific concepts. 

Human Values 

There is another good reason for emphasiz- 
ing human values in a science-fiction story. 
Science changes so rapidly that a story de- 
pending entirely upon some theory or gim- 
mick is apt to be laughable in five years. More- 
over this type never makes the best type of 
story. The best type is a story about people, 
with all their ramifications of character, their 
conflicts, passions — hates and loves — and the 
trouble they can get into, in pursuit of a scienti- 
fic problem. This kind of story is true science 
fiction because it is about people but could not 
happen outside a science-fiction setting. The 
(Continued on page 138) 




KNOWLEDGE 
THAT HAS 

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A SECRET METHOD 
THE MASTERY OF 



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W HENCE came the knowledge that built the 

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ST STOP: Mars or Venus? 



Choosing Our Initial Interplanetary Destination 




A lthough Mars is 9,000,000 miles far- 
ther from Earth than Venus (35,000,000 
miles distant at the point of nearest approach as 
against 26,000,000 miles for Venus) the Red 
Planet probably will be selected by scientists as 
Man’s first destination in interplanetary travel. 

There are several good reasons for this logi- 
cal supposition. First: Either of Mars’ two 
tiny moons, Deimos and Phobos, could serve 
as an excellent space station for the pioneer 
space-ship’s approach to the planet upon arrival 
and also for the take-off on the return trip to 
Earth. 

Second : On Mars alone have we been able 
to detect definite signs of plant life. The famous 
“canals” certainly do exist on Mars, and may 
well be the waterways claimed in the theory 
advanced by the great American astrjDnomer 
Percival Lowell. Modern star-gazers are prone 
to discount Lowell’s idea that a vast network of 
waterways exists on Mars to bring water from 
the polar ice-caps to the arid deserts. Until 
proved otherwise, Lowell’s interesting theory 
remains valid as any other. 

Third ; The blue-green “seas” of Mars are 
believed to be waterless seas, similar to those 
on the Moon. Unlike the dead seas on the 
Moon, however, the seas of Mars display inter- 
esting changes in color from season to season. 
During the bitter Martian vi^inter, the seas are 
dark-brown in color, changing to green in 
spring and summer. Green is the color of plant 
life — of vegetation. Just what form this vege- 
tation assumes is the subject of much discus- 
sion, although the consensus of erudite scientific 
opinion favors a hardy lichen perhaps unlike 
any on the Earth. 

Speculation on intelllgerit animal life on 
Mars, or indeed any animal life at all, invari- 
ably touches off a spirited gab-fest- between the 
advocates of two opposing theories. Ardent 



supporters of Theory Number One scoff at the 
chance of any animal life w'hatever existing on 
a planet where the main constituent of the ex- 
tremely thin atmosphere, as revealed by the 
spectroscope, appears to be carbon dioxide. 
Equally firm supporters of Theory Number 
Two steadfastly point out that true scientists 
should not arbitrarily limit their thinking to 
previously known facts. Martian animals, the 
Theory Two boys argue, would be able to utilize 
carbon dioxide as naturally as Earth animals 
breathe oxygen. 

Venus, although nearer to Earth than Mars, 
remains second choice in the “future book” with 
the learned gentlemen mapping out our Sky 
Ways of the decades to come. The perpetually 
cloud-wrapped planet we have poetically named 
for the ancient Italian Goddess of Bloom and 
Beauty has never once tossed aside her volumi- 
nous vapor robes to permit dazzled Earthmen 
to behold her inmost self. As a result of her 
coy reticence, astronomers never have been 
able even to determine Venus’ period of rotation. 
Best guess seems to be that the Venusian “day” 
may be several Earth weeks in length. 

Lack of precise knowledge of Venus is equal- 
ly annoying to scientists and astronomers alike, 
since Venus may well be as habitable as our 
own Earth for animals adapted by necessity to 
live there. Here, as on Mars, the spectroscope 
has revealed the presence of vast quantities of 
carbon dioxide. No trace of water vapor or 
oxygen has been detected in the Venusian at- 
mosphere. But science is no longer cocksure of 
anything, for it is surely true that “the more 
we learn, the more we discover our abysmal 
ignorance of almost everything.” Some day 
mysterious Venus will be forced to share her 
secrets with Earth. Let’s hope they turn oul 
to be pleasant secrets ! 

— Norman B. Wiltsey 



9 




Copyright, 19A0, by Better Publications, Ine^ lom 

originally published in Startling Stories for November, IHO. 



10 



il MILLION ILm 




Through eons of Time came Ardath of Kyiia, mobilizing the 

brains of Mankind for the creation of a new civilization 



A rdath opened his eyes, trying to 
remember why a blinding pain 
should be throbbing within his skull. 
Above him was a twisted girder of yel- 
low metal, and beyond that, the inner 
wall of the space ship. What had hap- 
pened ? 

It seemed scarcely a moment ago that 
the craft had been filled with a confu- 
sion of shouted orders, quickly moving 
men, and the shriek of cleft atmosphere 
as the ship drove down. Then had come 



the shock of landing — blackness. And 
now? 

Painfully Ardath dragged his slight, 
fragile body erect. All around him were 
ruin and confusion. Corpses lay sprawled 
and limp, the bodies of those who had 
not survived the terrible concussion. 
Strange men, slim and delicate, their 
skins had been darkly tanned by the 
long voyage across space. Ardath start- 
ed hopefully when he saw that one of 
the bodies moved slightly and moaned. 




12 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Theron! Theron, the commander — 
highest in rank and wisdom — had sur- 
vived. A wave of gratitude swept 
through Ardath. He was not alone on 
this new, unknown world, as he had 
feared. Swiftly he found stimulants and 
bent over the reviving man. 

Theron’s beardless gray face con- 
torted. His pallid blue eyes opened. He 
drew a lean hand over hfi bald head as 
he whispered: 

“Ardath — ” 

A rocking shudder shook the ship, 
then suddenly died. 

“Who else is alive?” Theron asked 
with painful effort. 

“I don’t know, Theron,” Ardath re- 
plied softly. 

“Find out.” 

Ardath searched the huge golden ship. 
He came back with despair on his drawn, 
harrowed features. 

“You and I are the only ones left 
alive, Theron.” 

The commander gnawed at his lips. 

“So. And I am dying.” He smiled re- 
signedly at Ardath’s sudden protest. 
“It’s true, Ardath. You do not realize 
how old I am. For years we have gone 
through space, and you are the young- 
est of us. Unshield a port. Let me see 
where we are.” 

“The third planet of this System,” 
Ardath said. 

He pressed a button that swung back 
a shutter from a nearby port in the gold- 
en wall. They saw nothing but dark- 
ness at first. Then their eyes became 
accustomed to the gloom. 

The ship lay beached on a dim shore. 
Blackly ominous the strange world 
loomed through the gray murk of vague 
light that filtered through the cloudy 
sky. A slow drizzle of rain was falling. 

“Test the atmosphere,” Theron com- 
manded. 

Ardath obeyed. Spectroscopic analy- 
sis, made from outer space, had indi- 
cated that the air here was breathable. 
The chemical test confirmed this. At 
Theron’s request, Ardath opened a 
spacelock. 



IR with a queerly choking sulphur- 
ic^ ous odor surged in. The two men 
coughed rackingly, until eventually they 
became accustomed to it. 

“Carry me out,” the commander said 
quietly. His glance met and locked with 
Ardath’s as the younger man hesitated. 
“I shall die soon,” he insisted gently. 
“But first I must — I must know that I 
have reached my goal.” 

Silently Ardath lifted the slight fig- 
ure in his arms. He splashed through 
the warm waves and gently laid Theron 
down on the barren beach. The Sun, 
hidden behind a cloud blanket, was ris- 
ing in the first dawn Ardath had ever 
seen. 

A gray sky and sea, a dark shore — 
those were all he actually saw. Under 
Ardath’s feet he felt the world shudder 
with the volcanic fires of creation. Rain 
and tide had not yet eroded the rocks 
into sand and soil. No vegetation grew 
anywhere. He did not know whether the 
land was an island or a continent. It 
rose abruptly from the beach and mount- 
ed to towering crags against the inland 
skyline. 

Theron sighed. His thin fingers 
groped blindly over the rocky surface on 
which he lay. 

“You are space-born, Ardath,” he said 
painfully. “You cannot quite realize 
that only on a planet can a man find a 
home. I3ut I am afraid — ” His voice 
died away. Then it rose again, strength- 
ened. “I am dying, but there is some- 
thing I must tell you first. Listen, Ar- 
dath. You never knew your mother 
planet, Kyria. It is light-years away 
from this world. Or it was. Centuries 
ago, we discovered that Kyria . was 
doomed. A wandering planetoid came 
so close that it would inevitably collide 
with us and destroy our civilization ut- 
terly. Kyria was a lovely world, Ar- 
dath.” 

“I know,” Ardath breathed. “I have 
seen the films in our recoi'ds.” 

“You have seen our great cities, and 
the green forests and fields — ” An ag- 
onizing cough rocked the dying comman- 



A MILLION YEAKS TO CONQUER 



der. He went on hastily, “We fled. A 
selected group of us made this space 
home. But of hundreds of planets that 
we found, none was suitable. None 
would sustain human life. This, the 
third planet of this yellow Sun, is our 
last hope. Our fuel is almost gone. It is 
your duty, Ardath, to see that the civ- 
ilization of Kyria does not perish.” 

“But this is a dead world,” the young- 
er man protested. 

“It is a young world,” Theron cor- 
rected. 

He paused, and his hand lifted, point- 
ing. Ardath stared at the slow, sullen 



13 

forth energy, cosmic rays, the rays of 
evolution. Immeasurable ages will pass 
before human beings exist here,J)ut ex- 
ist they will! Our study of countless 
other planets enables us to predict the 
course of evolution here. From the uni- 
cellular creatures will come sea-beings 
with vertebrae, then amphibiae, and 
true reptiles. Then warm-blooded beasts 
will evolve from the flying reptiles and 
the dinosaurs. Finally there will be 
apelike men, who will yield the planet 
to — true men!” 

“But it will take millennia!” 

“You must remain here,” Theron 



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forgotten Atlantis crumble to dust as Ardath, the searcher from the stars, 
prepares for the conquest of the future in — A MILLION YEARS TO 
CONQUER.” 

It’s interesting to compare this novel with the author’s more recent 
WELL OF THE WORLDS. A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER is 
the Kuttner of more than a decade ago — a decade during which science 
fiction tossed away its short pants and began to behave like an adult. 
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displaying in full force the power and originality which were then, and 
are now, Kuttner’s personal trademark. 

— The Editor 



tide that rippled drearily toward them. 
The gloomy wash of water receded. And 
there on the rocky slope lay something 
that made him nod understandingly. 

It was not large. A greasy, shining 
blob of slime, featureless and repulsive, 
it - was unmistakably alive, undeniably 
sentient ! 

The shimmering globule of proto- 
plasm was drawn back with the next 
wave. When Ardath ’s eyes met Ther- 
on’s, the dying man smiled trium- 
phantly. 

“Life ! There’s Sun here, Ardath, be- 
yond the clouds — a Sun that sends 



stated. “You, who survived the voyage 
from Kyria. You must wait, Ardath, 
even a million years if it is necessary. 
Our stasis ray kept us in suspended ani- 
mation while we came across space. 
Take the ship beyond the atmosphere. 
Adjust it to a regular orbit, like a second 
satellite around this world. Set the con- 
trols so you will awaken eventually, and 
be able to investigate the evolutionary 
progress of this planet. You will wait a 
long time, I admit. But finally you will 
find men.” 

“Men like us?” 

Theron shook his head regretfully. 



14 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“No. Super-mentality is a matter 
of eugenically controlled breeding. Oc- 
casionally a mental giant will be born, 
but not often. On Kyria we bred and 
mated these mental giants, till eventu- 
ally their progeny peopled the planet. 
You must do the same with this world.” 

“I will,” Ardath consented. “But 
how — ” 

“Go through the ages. Do not stop 
till you find one of these mental giants. 
He will be easily recognized for, almost 
from infancy, he will be far in advance 
of his contemporaries. He will withdraw 
from them, turning to the pursuit of 
wisdom. He will be responsible for many 
of the great inventions of his time. Take 
this man— or woman, perhaps — and go 
on into time, until you have found a 
mental giant of the opposite sex. 

“You could never mate with a female 
of this world, Ardath. Since you are 
from another System, it would be bio- 
logically impossible. The union would 
be sterile. This is your duty — find a 
super-mentality, take him from his own 
time-sector, and find a mate for him in 
the more distant future. From that 
union will arise a race of giants equal to 
the Kyrians. In a sense, you will have 
been their foster-father.” 

^HERON sighed, turned his head till 

his cheek lay against the bare rock of 
the shore. 

“May the great Architect guide you, 
Ardath,” he said softly. 

' Abruptly his head slumped, and Ther- 
on was dead. 

The gray waves whispered a requiem. 
Ardath stood silent, looking down at the 
worn, tired face, now relaxed in death. 

He was alone, infinitely far from the 
nearest human being. 

Then another feeling came, making 
him realize that he was no longer a 
homeless wanderer of space. 

Never in his life had Ardath stood on 
a world’s surface. The others had told 
him of Kyria, and on the pictorial li- 
brary screens he had seen view's of green 
and sunset lands that were agonizingly 



beautiful.^ Inevitably Ardath had come 
to fear the black immensity of the star- 
lit void, to hate its cold, eternal change- 
lessness. He had dreamed of walking 
on grassy, rolling plains. 

That would come, for he knew Theron 
had been right. Cycads and ferns would 
grow where Ardath now stood. Am- 
phibiae would come out of the waters 
and evolve, slowly of course, but with in- 
exorable ceiTainty. He could afford to 
wait. 

First, though, he needed power. The 
great atomic engine of the ship was 
useless, exhausted. 

Atomic power resembled dynamite in 
that it needed some outside source of 
energy to get it started. Dynamite re- 
quired a percussion cap. The engine of 
the golden ship needed power. Solar 
energy ? Lenses were required. Besides, 
the cloud blanket was an insurmount- 
able handicap, filtering out most of the 
necessary rays. Coal ? It would not exist 
here for ages. 

A tremble shook the ground, and Ar- 
dath nodded thoughtfully. There was 
power below' the power of seething lava, 
enormous pressures, and heat that could 
melt solid rock. Could it be harnessed? 

Steam — a geyser! That would pro- 
vide the necessary energy to start the 
atomic motor. After that, anything 
would be possible. 

With a single regretful glance at the 
dead Theron, Ardath set out to explore 
the savage new world. 

For two days and nights he hunted, 
growing haggard and weary. At last he 
found an area of lava streams, shudder- 
ing rock, and geysers. Steam feathered 
up into the humid air, and to the north 
a red glow brightened the gray sky. 

Ardath stood for a while, watching. 
His quest was ended. Long weeks of ar- 
duous work still lay ahead, but now he 
had no doubt of ultimate success. The 
steam demons would set the atomic mo- 
tor into operation. After that, he could 
rip ores from the ground and find chem- 
icals. But after that ? 

The ship must be made spaceworthy 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER li 



again, though not for another long voy- 
age. Such a course would be fruitless. 
Of all the planets the Kyrians had visi- 
ted, only this world was capable of sup- 
porting life. 

As yet, mere cells of blind, insensate 
protoplasm swarmed in the sullen seas, 
but those cells would develop. Evolution 
would work upon them. Perhaps in a 
million years human beings, intelligent 
creatures, would walk this world. Then, 
one day, a super-mentality would be 
born, and Ardath would find that kin- 
dred mind. He would take that mental 
giant into the future, in search of a 
suitable mate. After dozens of genera- 
tions there would arise a civilization 
that would rival that of Kyria — his 
home planet now utterly destroyed with- 
out trace. 

hplME passed as Adath worked. He 
•*- blasted out a grave for Theron on 
the shore where the old Kyrian had died. 
He repaired the golden craft. Tirelessly 
he toiled. 

Five months later, the repaired space 
ship rose, carrying its single .passenger. 
Through the atmosphere it fled. It set- 
tled into an orbit, became a second, in- 
finitesimal moon revolving around the 
mother planet. 

Within it, Ardath’s robot machinery 
began to operate. A ray beamed out, 
touching and bathing the man’s form, 
which was stretched on a low couch. 

Slowly consciousness left Ardath. 
The atomic structure of his body was 
subtly altered. Electrons slowed in their 
orbits. Since they emitted no quanta, 
Ardath’s energy was frozen in the utter 
motionlessness of stairs. Neither alive 
nor dead, he slept. 

The ray clicked off. When Ardath 
wakened, he would see a different world, 
older and stronger. Perhaps it would 
even be peopled by intelligent beings. 

Silently the space ship swept on. Far 
beneath it a planet shuddered in the 
Titanic grip of dying fires. The rains 
poured down, eroding, endless. The tides 
flowed and ebbed. Always the cloud veil 



shrouded the world that was to be called 
Earth., Amid the shattering thunder of 
, deluges, new lands rose and continents 
were formed. 

Life, blind, hungry and groping, 
crawled up on the beaches, where it 
basked for a time in the dim sunlight. 

II 

d N AUGUST 7, 1924, an eight-year- 
old boy caused a panic in a Des Moines 
theater. 

His name was Stephen Court. He had 
been born to a theatrical family of me- 
diocre talent— the Crazy Courts, they 
were billed. The act was a combination 
of gags, dances and humorous songs. 
Stephen traveled with his parents on 
tour, when they played one-night stands 
and small vaudeville circuits. In 1924, 
vaudeville had not yet been killed by the 
films. It was the beginning of the Jazz 
Age. 

Stephen was so remarkably intelli- 
gent, even as a child, that he was soon 
incorporated into the act as a “mental 
wizard.’’ He wore a miniature cap and 
gown, and was introduced by his parents 
at the end of their turn. 

“Any date— ask him any historical 
date, my friends, and he will answer! 
The gentleman in the third row. What 
do you want to know?” 

And Stephen would answer accurate- 
ly. When did Columbus discover Ameri- 
ca? When was the Magna Charta 
signed? When was the Battle of Has- 
tings ? When was Lafayette born ? 

“Mathematical questions? You, 
there — ” 

Stephen would answer. Mathematics 
was no riddle for him, neither dates nor 
algebra. The value of pi? He knew it. 
Formulas and equations slipped glibly 
from his tongue. He stood on the stage 
in the spotlight, his srnall face impas- 
sive, a small, dark-haired child with curi- 
ously luminous brown eyes, and an- 
swered all questions. 

He read omnivorously every book he 
could manage to obtain. He was coldly 



16 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



unemotional, which distressed his moth- 
er, and he hid his thoughts well. 

-Then, on that August night, his life 
suddenly changed. 

The act was almost over. The audi- 
ence was applauding wildly. The Courts 
stood on each side of the boy, bowing. 
And Stephen stood motionless, his 
strange, glowing eyes staring out into 
the gloom of the theater. 

“Take your bows, kid,” Court hissed 
from the side of his mouth. 

But the boy didn’t answer. There was 
an odd tensity in his rigid posture. His 
expressionless face seemed strained. 
Only in his eyes was there life, and a 
terrible fire. 

In the theater, a whisper grew to a 
murmur and the applause died. Then 
the murmur swelled to a restrained roar, 
until someone screamed: 

“Fire!’ 

The elder Court glanced around 
quickly. He could see no signs of smoke 
or flame. But he made a quick gesture, 
and the orchestra leader struck up a 
tune. Hastily the man and woman went 
into a routine tap dance. 

“Steve!” Court said urgently. “Join 
in!” 

But Stephen just stood there, and 
through the theater the roar rose to in- 
dividual screams of panic. The audi- 
ence no longer watched the stage. They 
sprang up and fought their way to the 
exits, cursing, pushing, crowding. 

Nothing could stop it. By sheer luck 
no one was killed. But in ten minutes 
the theater was empty — and there had 
been no sign of a fire. 

In his dressing room. Court looked 
queerly at his son. 

“What was wrong with you tonight, 
kid?” he asked, as he removed grease- 
paint from his face with cold cream. 

“Nothing,” Stephen said abstractedly. 
- “Something funny about the whole 
thing. There wasn’t any fire.” 

Stephen sat on a chair, his legs swing- 
ing idly. 

“That magician we played with last 
week — ” he began. 



“Yeah?” 

“I got some ideas from him.” 

“Well?” his father urged. 

“I watched him when he hypnotized 
a man from the audience. That’s all it 
was. I hypnotized the entire audience 
tonight." 

“Oh, cut it out,” Curt said, grinning. 

“It’s true ! The conditions were right. 
Everyone’s attention was focused on me. 
I made them think there was a fire.” 

When Court turned and looked at the 
boy, he had an odd feeling that this was 
not his son sitting opposite him. The 
round face was childish, but the eyes 
were not. They were cold, watchful, di- 
rect. 

Court laughed without much convic- 
tion. 

“You’re crazy,” he said, turning back 
to the light-rimmed mirror. 

“Maybe I am,” Stephen said lightly. 
“I want to go to school. Will you send 
me?” 

“I can’t afford it. Anyway, you’re too 
big an attraction. Maybe we can man- 
age later.” 

S TEPHEN did not argue. He rose and 
went toward his mother’s dressing 
room, but he did not enter. Instead, he 
turned and left the theater. 

He had determined to run away. 
Stephen already knew that his brain 
was far superior to the average. It was 
as yet unformed, requiring knowledge 
and capable training. Those he could 
never get through his parents. He felt 
no sorrow or pity on leaving them. His 
cool intellect combined with the natural 
cruelty of childhood to make him un- 
emotional, passionlessly logical. 

But Stephen needed money, and his 
youth was a handicap. No one would 
employ a child, he knew, except perhaps 
as a newsboy. Moreover, he had to out- 
wit his parents, who would certainly 
search for their, son. 

Strangely there was nothing pathetic 
about Stephen’s small figure as he 
trudged along the dark street. His iron 
singleness of purpose and his ruthless 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER IT 



will gave him a certain incongruous dig- 
nity. He walked swiftly to the railroad 
station. 

On the way he passed a speakeasy. A 
man was lying in the gutter before the 
door, an unshaven derelict, grizzled of 
hair and with worn, dissolute features. 
He was mumbling drunkenly and striv- 
ing helplessly to rise. 

Stephen paused to watch. Attracted 
by the silent gaze, the man looked up. 
As the two glances met, inflexible pur- 
pose grew in the boy’s pale face. 

“Wanna — drink,” the derelict mum- 
bled. “Gotta. They won’t give old Sam- 
my a drink.” 

Stephen’s eyes again grew luminous. 
They seemed to bore into the watery 
eyes of the hobo, probing, commanding. 

“Eh?” the drunkard asked blankly, 
and his voice died off uncertainly as he 
staggered erect. 

Stephen gripped his arm, and the two 
went down the street. In a dark door- 
way they paused. The foggy, half- 
wrecked brain of the tramp was no 
match for Stephen’s hypnotic powers. 
Sammy listened as the boy talked. 

“You’re catching a freight out of 
town. You’re taking me with you. Do 
you understand?” 

“Eh?” Sammy asked vaguely. 

In a monotonous voice the boy repeat- 
ed his commands. When the drunkard 
finally understood, the two headed for 
the railway station. 

Stephen’s plans were made. To all 
appearance, he was a mere child. He 
could not possibly have fulfilled his de- 
sires alone. The authorities would have 
returned him to his parents, or he would 
have been sent to a school as a public 
charge. What man could recognize in a 
young boy an already blossoming geni- 
us. Stephen’s super-mentality was seri- 
ously handicapped by his immaturity. 

He needed a guardian, purely nominal, 
to satisfy the prejudices of the world. 
Through Sammy he could act. Sammy 
would be his tongue, his hands, his legal 
representative. Men would be willing to 
deal with Sammy, where they would 




MARION BARTON 



have laughed at a child. But first the 
tramp would have to be metamorphosed 
into a “useful citizen.” 

That night, they rode in a chilly box- 



18 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



car, headed east. Hour after hour Ste- 
phen worked on the brain of his captive. 
Sammy must be his eyes, his hands, his 
provider. 

Once Sammy had been a mechanic, he 
revealed under Stephen’s relentless pro- 
bing. The train rolled on through the 
darkness, the wheels beating a clicking 
threnody toward the East. 

Stephen’s task was not easy, for the 
habits of years had weakened Sammy’s 
body and mind. He was a confirmed 
tramp, lazy, and content to follow the 
call of his wanderlust. But always Ste- 
phen drove him on, arguing, command- 
ing, convincing. Hypnosis, played a 
large part in the boy’s ultimate success. 

Sammy got a job, much against his 
will, and washed dishes in a cheap res- 
taurant for a few weeks. He shaved 
daily and consistently drank less. Mean- 
while Stephen waited, but he did not 
wait in idleness. He spent his days vis- 
iting automobile agencies and studying 
the machines. At night he crouched in 
a cheap tenement room, sketching and 
designing. Finally he spoke to Sam- 
my. 

“I want you to get another job. You 
will be a mechanic in an automobile fac- 
tory.” He watched Sammy’s reaction. 

“Aw, I can’t Steve,” the man pro- 
tested. “They wouldn’t even look at 
me. Let’s hit the road again, huh?” 

“Show them these,” Stephen ordered, 
extending a sheaf of closely written 
papers and drawings. “They’ll give you 
a job.” 

A T FIRST the foreman told Sammy to 
get out, after a glance at his red- 
rimmed eyes and weak, worn face. But 
the papers were a magic password. The 
foreman pondered over them, bewilder- 
edly scrutinized Sammy, and went off to 
confer with one of the managers. 

“The man’s good!” he blurted. “He 
doesn’t look it, but he’s an expert me- 
chanic, just the kind of man we need. 
Look at these improvements he’s 
worlied out! This wiring change will 
save us thousands annually. And this 



gear ratio. It’s new, but it might work. 
I think — ” 

“Send him in,” the manager said has- 
tily. 

Sammy got his job. Actually he 
wasn’t much good, but every month or 
two he would show up with some new 
improvement, some unexpected inven- 
tion that got him raises instead of dis- 
missal. Of course Stephen was respon- 
sible for all this. He had adopted Sam- 
my. 

Stephen saw to it that they moved to 
a more convenient apartment, and now 
he went to school. Needing surprisingly 
little sleep, he spent most of his time 
studying. There was so much to learn, 
and so little time! To acquire the knowl- 
edge he wanted, he needed more and 
more money to pay for tutoring and 
equipment. 

The years passed with a peaceful lack 
of haste. Sammy drank little now, and 
took a great deal of interest in his work. 
But he was still a tramp at heart, eter- 
nally longing for the open road. Some- 
times he would try to slip away, but 
Stephen was always too watchful. 

At last the boy was ready for the next 
step. It was then early in 1927. After 
months of arduous toil, he had com- 
pleted several inventions which he 
thought valuable. He had Sammy patent 
them, and then market them to the high- 
est bidders. 

The result was more money than Ste- 
phen had expected. He made Sammy 
resign his job, and the two of them re- 
tired to a country house. He brought 
along several tutors, and had a compact, 
modern laboratory set up. When more 
money was required, the boy would put- 
ter around for awhile. Inevitably he 
emerged with a new formula that in- 
creased the already large annual income. 

Tutors changed as Stephen grew old- 
er and learned more. He attended col- 
lege for a year, but found he could ap- 
ply his mind better at home. He needed 
a larger headquarters, though. So they 
moved to Wisconsin and bought a huge 
old mansion, which he had renovated. 



A IVnLLlON YEARS TO CONQUER 



His quest for knowledge seemed end- 
less, yet he did not neglect his health. 
He went for long walks and exercised 
mightily. 

When finally he grew to manhood, 
he was a magnificent specimen, strong, 
well-formed and handsome. But always, 
save for a few occasional lapses, he was 
coldly unemotional. 

Once he had detectives locate his par- 
ents, and anonymously arranged to pro- 
vide a large annual income for them. 
But he would not see either his father or 
mother. 

“They would mean emotional crises,” 
he told Sammy. “There would be unnec- 
essary arguments. By this time they 
have forgotten me, anyway. That’s cer- 
tain.” 

“Think so?” Sammy muttered, chew- 
ing on the stem of his ancient pipe. His 
nut-brown, wrinkled face looked rather 
puzzled under his stiff crop of white 
hair. “Well, I never did think you was 
human, Stevie.” 

He shook his head, put the pipe away, 
and pottered off in search of one of his 
rare drinks. Stephen returned to his 
work. 

What was the purpose of these years 
of intensive study? He scarcely knew. 
His mind was a vessel to be filled with 
the clear, exhilarating liquor of know- 
ledge. As Sammy’s system craved alco- 
hol, so Stephen’s brain thirsted for wis- 
dom. Study and experiment were to him 
a precious delight that approached ac- 
tual ecstasy. As an athlete gets keen 
pleasure from the exercise of his well- 
trained body, so Stephen exulted in the 
exercise of his mind. 

Unimaginable eons before, in the teem- 
ing seas of a primeval world, life-forms 
had fed their blind hunger. That was 
appetite of the flesh. 

Stephen’s hunger was the appetite of 
the mind. But it also made him blind, 
in a different way. He was a godlike 
man, and he was, by ordinary standards, 
unhuman. 

By 1941 he was the greatest scientist 
in the world. 



EFORE man created gods, Ardath 
was. In Ilia space ship, swinging silent- 
ly around the world, he slept as the 
ages went past. 

Sometimes he woke and searched, al- 
ways in vain, for intelligent life in the 
land below. The road of evolution was 
long and bloody. 

Dark weariness shrouded Ardath as 
he saw the vast, mindless, terrible be- 
hemoths of the oceans. Monsters wal- 
lowed into the swamps. The ground 
shook beneath the tread of tyrant liz- 
ards. Brontosaurs and pterodactyls 
lived and fed and died. 

There were mammals — oehippus the 
fleet and three-toed, and a tiny marsu- 
pial in which the flame of intelligence 
glowed feebly. But the Titan reptiles 
ruled. Mammals could not survive in 
this savage, thundering world. 

Forests of weeds and bamboo tow- 
ered in a tropical zone that stretched al- 
most to the poles. Ardath pondered, 
studied for a time in his laboratory — 
and the Ice Age came. 

Was Ardath responsible? Perhaps. 
His science was not Earthly, and his 
powers were unimaginable. The ice 
mountains swept down, blowing their 
frigid breath upon the forests and the 
reptile giants. 

Southward the hegira fled. It was the 
Day of Judgment for the idiot colossi 
that had ruled too long. 

But the mammals survived. Shudder- 
ing in the narrow equatorial belt they 
starved and whimpered. But they lived, 
and they evolved, while Ardath slept 
again. . . . 

When he awoke, he found beast-men, 
hairy and ferocious. They dwelt in gre- 
garious packs, ruled by an Old Man 
who had proved himself strongest of the 
band. 

But always the chill winds of the ice- 
lands tore at them as they crouched in 
their caves. 

Ardath found one, wiser than the 
rest, and taught him the use of fire. 





20 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Then the alien man sent his ship ar- 
rowing up from Earth, while flames be- 
gan to burn wanly before cave mouths. 
In grunts and sign language the story 
was told. Ages later, men would tell 
the tale of Prometheus, who stole fire 
from the very gods of heaven. 

Folk-lore is filled with the legends of 
men who visited the gods — the Little 
People or the Sky-dwellers — and re- 
turned with strange powers. Arrows 
and spears, the smelting of ores, the 
sowing and reaping of grain. How many 
inventions could be traced to Ardath? 

But at last Ardath slept for a longer 
time than ever before, and then he 
awoke. 

Dark was the city. Flambeaux were 
as numerous as fireflies in the gloomy 
streets. The metropolis lay like a crouch- 
ing beast on the shore, a vast conglom- 
eration of stone, crude and colossal. 

The ship of Ardath hung far above 
the city, unseen in the darkness of the 
night. Ardath himself was busy in his 
laboratory, working on a curiously con- 
structed device that measured the fre- 
quency and strength of mentality. 
Thought created electrical energy, and 
Ardath’s machine registered the power 
of that energy. Delicately he sent an in- 
visible narrow-wave beam down into the 
city far beneath. 

On a gage a needle crept up, halted, 
dipped, and mounted again. Ardath re- 
set a dial. Intelligent beings dwelt on 
Earth now, but their intelligence was 
far inferior to Ardath’s. He was search- 
ing for a higher level. 

The needle was inactive as Ardath 
swept the city with his ray. Useless! 
The pointer did not even quiver. The 
mental giant Ardath sought was not 
here, though this was the greatest me- 
tropolis of the primeval world. 

But suddenly the needle jerked slight- 
ly. Ardath halted the ray and turned to 
a television screen. Using the beam as 
a carrier, he focused upon a scene that 
sprang into instant visibility. 

He saw a throne of black stone upon 
which a woman sat. Tall and majestic, 



an Amazon of forty or more, she had 
lean, rugged features, and wore plain 
garments of leather. 

Guards flanked her, gigantic, stolid, 
aimed with spears. Before the throne a 
man stood, and it was at this man that 
Ardath stared. 

For months the Kyrian’s ship had 
scoured the skies, searching jungles and 
deserts. Few cities existed. On the 
northern steppes, shaggy beast-men still 
dwelt in caves, fighting the mammoth. 
But the half-men and the hairy ele- 
phants were rapidly degenerating. In 
mountain lakes were villages built on 
stilts, and piers sunken into the mud, 
but these clans were barbarous. Only 
on this island were there civilization and 
intelligence, though lamentably lower 
than Ardath’s own level. 

T he man from space watched the 
wisest human on this primitive 
Earth. 

In chains the Earthman stood before 
the black stone throne. He was huge, 
massively thewed, with a bronzed, hairy 
skin showing through the rags he wore. 
His face resembled that of a beast, fe- 
rocious with hatred. Amber cat’s-eyes 
glared from beneath the beetling brows. 
The jutting jaw was hidden by a wiry 
beard that tangled around the nose that 
was little more than a snout. 

Yet in that brute body, Ardath knew, 
dwelt amazing intelligence. Shrewdness 
and cunning were well-masked by the 
hideous face and form. 

What of the Queen ? Curious to know, 
Ardath tested her with his ray. She, too, 
was more intelligent than most of the 
savages. 

“These two are enemies,” Ardath 
thought. “And I imagine that the man 
faces danger or death. Well, what is 
that to me? I cannot live in a time 
where all are barbarians. It is best that 
I sleep again.” 

Yet he hesitated, one hand resting 
lightly on the controls that would send 
the ship racing up into space. The bar- 
ren loneliness of the void, the slow cen- 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 21 



turies of his dark vigil, crept with icy 
tentacles into his mind. He thought of 
the equally long; miserably lonely fu- 
ture. 

“Suppose I sleep again and wake in a 
dead world? It could happen, for my 
own home planet was destroyed. How 
could I face another search through 
space? Thei'on and- the rest had each 
other.” 

He turned back again to watch the 
two people on the screen. 

“They are intelligent, after a fashion, 
and they would be companions. If I took 
them with me, and we woke in a lifeless 
time, they could bring forth a new race 
which I could train eugenically into the 
right pattern.” 

The decision was made. Ardath would 
sleep again in his ship — but this time not- 
alone. 

He glanced at the screen, and his eyes 
widened. A new factor had entered the 
problem. Hastily he turned to a com- 
plicated machine at his side. . . . 

As Thordred the Usurper stood be- 
fore the throne of his queen, his savage 
face was immobile. Weaponless, fet- 
tered, he nevertheless glared with im- 
placable fury at the woman who had 
spoiled his plans. 

Zana met his gaze coldly. Her harsh 
features were darkly somber. 

“Well?” she asked. “Have you any- 
thing to say to me?” 

“Nothing,” Thordred grunted. “I 
have failed. That is all.” 

The huge, almost empty throne room 
echoed his words eerily. 

“Aye, you have failed,” the queen 
said. “And there is but one fate for 
losers who revolt. You tried to force 
me from my throne, and instead you 
stand in chains before me. You have 
lost, so you must die.” 

Thordred’s grin mocked her calm de- 
cision. 

“And a woman continues to rule our 
land. Never in history has this shame 
been put upon us. Always we have been 
ruled by men — warriors!” 

“You call me weakling?” Zana snarled 



at him. “By all the gods, you are rash, 
Thordred. You know well that I’ve 
never shirked battle, and that my sword 
has been swift to slay. I am strong as 
a man and more cunning than you.” 

“Yet you are a woman,” Thordred 
taunted recklessly. “Kill me, if you 
wish, but you cannot deny your sex.” 

A shadow darkened Zana’s face as she 
glared venomously at her mocker. 

“Aye, I shall kill you,” she said. “So 
slowly that you will beg for a merciful 
death. Then the vultures will pick your 
carcass clean on the Mountain of the 
Gods.” 

Thordred suddenly shouted with 
laughter. 

“Save your words, wench. It is like a 
woman to threaten with words. A man’s 
vengeance is with a spear, swift and 
sudden. I — ” 

He paused, ancf a curious light came 
into his amber eyes. His great body 
tensed as he listened. 

In the distance, a tumult grew louder 
and louder, like the beating of the sea. 
Suddenly it was thundering through the 
throne room. 

Zana, the Amazon, sprang to her feet, 
her lips parted in astonishment. 

The vast doors at the end of the room 
burst inward. Through the portal poured 
a yelling mob. 

“Thordred I” they roared. “Ho, Thor- 
dred !” 

The giant grinned victoriously at 
Zana. 

“Some are still faithful to me, it 
seems. They would rather see a man 
on the throne — ” 

A blistering curse burst from Zana's 
lips. She snatched a spear from a guard 
and savagely drove its point at the 
prisoner. But Thordred sprang aside, 
laughing, the muscles rolling effortless- 
ly under his tawny skin. 

TTE SET his foot on the links of the 
chain that bound his wrists. His 
body arched like a bow. The metal 
snapped asunder, and Thordred the 
Usurper was free ! 



22 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



The guards near the throne leaped 
at him. He ducked under a swift spear 
at the same instant that his fist smashed 
a face into a bloody ruin. And then the 
mob surrounded him, lifted him, bore 
him bsck 

“Slay him !’’ Zana shrilled. “Slay 
him!” 

The mob swept back, out of the hall, 
through the great doors and into the 
street. 

But now Zana’s cries brought a re- 
sponse. Armed soldiers rushed in 
through a dozen portals. They raced 
after the escaping prisoner, with Zana 
fearlessly leading them. 

It was sunset. The western sky 
flamed blood-red. Down the street the 
crowd seethed, to halt in an open plaza. 
Grimly menacing, they turned at bay, 
Thordred at their head. He towered 
above the others with his chains dan- 
gling from his wrists and ankles. 

Zana’s men formed into a sizable 
army, filling the street from side to 
side. Arrows flew, hissing at the angry, 
triumphant mob. Over the city the low, 
thunderous muttering grew louder. 

“Revolt! Revolt! 

It was civil war. 

But the conflicting forces were not 
yet in contact. A space still lay between. 
Only spears and arrows had crossed it. 

“Charge!” Zana shouted. “Slay them 
all !” 

Grinning, Thordred raised high his 
lance and shook it defiantly. 

The queen’s soldiers drew erect, and 
like a thunder-cloud they began to move. 
Abruptly they were sweeping forward, 
irresistible, a tidal wave bristling with 
steel barbs. The pounding of their shod 
feet hammered loud on the stones. In 
the forefront raced Zana, her harsh face 
twisted with fury. 

Thordred let fly bis spear. It missed 
its mark. At the last moment the 'giant 
had hesitated, and his gaze went up to 
the western sky. His jaw dropped in 
awe. For the first time, Thordred was 
afraid. A scream rose, thin and wailing. 

“Demons !” someone cried. “Demons !” 



The soldiers slowed involuntarily in 
their charge, then one by one they 
halted. Struck motionless with fearful 
wonder, every man stood gaping tov/ard 
the west. 

Against the blood-red sunset loomed 
actual demons ! 

Giants, scores of feet tall, they were. 
Titans whose heads towered above the 
city’s walls. A whole army of the mon- 
sters loomed black against the scarlet 
sky. These were not men ! Shaggy, 
hump-shouldered, dreadful beings more 
human than apes but unmistakably 
beasts, they came thundering down upon 
the city. The frightful mask twisted in 
ferocious hunger. They swept forward. 

No one noticed that their advance 
made not the slightest sound. Panic 
struck the mobs. Both sides dropped 
their weapons to flee. 

From the sky a great, shining globe 
dropped. It hovered above the plaza. 
Two beams of light flashed down from 
it. One struck Thordred, bathing him 
in craw'ling radiance. The other caught 
Zana. 

The man and the woman alike were 
held motionless. Frozen, paralyzed, they 
were swept up, lifted into the air. When 
they reached the huge globe, they 
seemed to disappear. 

The sphere then rose, dwindled quick- 
ly to a speck and was gone. 

Surprisingly the giants had also van- 
ished. . . ._ 

Ardath adjusted the controls. Sigh- 
ing, he turned away. The ship was back 
in its orbit, circling the Earth. It would 
not deviate from that course for cen- 
turies, until the moment Ardath’s hand 
moved its controls. 

He picked up a small metal box, 
stepped out of the laboratory and closed 
the panel. On the floor at his feet lay 
the unconscious forms of Zana and Thor- 
dred. Ardath set down the box. 

This would be a new experiment, one 
that he had never tried. He could not 
speak the language of these Earthlings, 
nor could they speak his. But knowledge 
could be transmitted from one brain to 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 



23 




another. Thought patterns were a form 
of energy, and that could be transferred, 
just as a matrix may stamp out dupli- 
cates. 

THIRST, the man. Ardath opened the 
black box, took out a circular metal- 
lic band and adjusted it about the sleep- 
ing Thordred’s head. A similar band 
went about his own. He pressed a 
switch, felt a stinging, tingling sensa- 
tion Muthin his skull. 

He removed the metal bands, replaced 
them, and waited patiently. Would the 
experiment work? His lips shaped un- 
familiar syllables. He had learned 
Thordred's language — but could the un- 
developed brain of the Earthling be 
equally receptive? 

Thordred groaned and opened his 
eyes. He stared up at Ardath. Into 
those amber eyes came a curious look 
that might have been amazement, but 
which was certainly not fear. 

“You are not hurt,” Ardath said in 

The inhuman eyes were 
brightiy-radiant pools 



Thordred’s harsh, primitive language. 
“Nor will you be harmed.” 

The Earthling stood up with an effort, 
breathing hoarsely. He took an unsteady 
step, reeled, collapsed with a shattering 
crash upon the thought transference ap- 
paratus. He lay silent and unmoving, an 




24 



FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



utterly helpless strong man. 

No expression showed on Ardath’s 
face, though the work of weeks had 
been ruined. The device could be built 
again, though he did not know if it 
should be. Had it been successful ? 

Thordred shuddered, rolled over. 
Painfully he rose and leaned weakly 
against the wall. His amber eyes rested 
puzzledly on Ardath as he asked a ques- 
tion in the Kyrian’s soft language, 
which grated from his crude throat. 

“Who are you, a god or a demon?” 

Ardath smiled with satisfaction, for 
all was going well. He must explain 
matters to this Earthling to calm his 
fears. Later, he would rebuild the ma- 
chine and teach Zana his own tongue. 
Then the three could sleep, for centuries 
if necessary. 

, But Ardath did not know that his de- 
vice had worked too well. It had trans- 
ferred knowledge of his own language 
to Thordred’s brain, yet it had trans- 
ferred more than that. All of Ardath’s 
memories had been transmitted to the 
mind of the Earthling! 

At that moment, Thordred’s wisdom 
was as great as that of his captor. 
Though he had not Ardath’s potentiality 
for learning more, unearthly, amazing 
wisdom had been impressed on his brain 
cells. Thordred had smashed the ma- 
chine, not through accident, but with 
coldly logical purpose. It would not do 
for Zana to acquire Ardath’s wisdom 
also. 

With an effort, Thordred kept an ex- 
pression of stupid wonder on his face. 
He must play his role carefully. Ardath 
must not yet suspect that another man 
shared his secrets. 

Ardath was speaking, carefully ex- 
plaining things that his captive already 
knew. While Thordred seemed to listen, 
he swiftly pondered and discarded plans. 
Zana must die, of course. As for sleep- 
ing for centuries — well, it was not a 
pleasant thought. Ardath must be slain, 
so Thordred could return to Earth with 
new knowledge. 

“The giants you saw in the sky,” said 



Ardath, “were not real. They were 
three-dimensional projections, enlarged 
by my apparatus. I recorded the ori- 
ginals of those beings ages ago, when 
they actually lived and fought cave- 
bears and saber-toothed tigers.” 

No, they were merely images, but 
men had seen them and remembered. 
The panic in the city below had died. In 
its place grew superstitious dread, fos- 
tered by the priests. Time passed, and 
neither Zana nor Thordred returned. 
New rulers arose to sit upon the black 
throne. 

But on the Mountain of the Gods, men 
toiled under' the lash of the priests. 
Monstrous images of stone rose against 
the sky, gap-mouthed, fearsome images 
in crude similitude of the devils who had 
come out of the sunset. 

“They may return,” the priests 
warned. “But the stone giants on the 
mountain will frighten them away. 
Build them higher ! They will guard our 
city.” 

On the peak the blind, alien faces 
glared ever into the sunset. And the 
days fled into years, and the dark cen- 
turies shrouded Earth. Continents 
crumbled. The eternal seas rose and 
washed new shores. 

But the blind gods stayed to guard 
that which no longer needed guarding. 
And still they watch, those strange, 
alien statues on Easter Island. 

IV 

^EW YEAE’S DAY, 1941, was mo- 
mentous for Stephen Court. Most of 
December, 1940, he had spent in his 
laboratories, engrossed with a task the 
nature of which he explained to no one. 
The great Wisconsin mansion, where 
he lived with his staff, had been meta- 
morphosed into a fortress of science, 
though from the outside it appeared to 
be merely an antique, dilapidated struc- 
ture. But nearby villagers view'ed with 
suspicion the activity around Stephen 
Court’s home. 

The local post-office was deluged with 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 25 



letters and packages. At all hours auto- 
mobiles arrived, carrying cryptic bur- 
dens for Court. 

Slyly the villagers questioned Sammy, 
for he often wandered into the combina- 
tion store and post-office, to sit by the 
stove and puff great, reeking fumes 
from his battered pipe. Sammy had not 
changed much with the years. His hair 
had turned white, but there were only 
a few more creases in his brown face. 
Since moving to Wisconsin, Stephen had 
relaxed the anti-liquor restriction, but 
Sammy had learned the value of mod- 
eration. 

“What’s going on up at your place?” 
the storekeeper asked him, proffering a 
bottle. 

Sammy drank two measured gulps 
and wiped his lips. 

“The Lord only knows,” he sighed. 
“It’s way beyond me. Stevie’s a swell 
boy, though. You can bet on that.” 

“Yeah!” retorted somebody, with an 
angry snort. “He’s a cold-blooded fish, 
you mean. He ain’t human. He’s got ice- 
water in his veins. Comes and goes 
without so much as a howdy-do.” 

“He’s thinking,” Sammy defended 
sturdily. “Got a lot on his mind these 
days, Stevie has. He gets about two 
hours’ sleep a night.” 

“But what’s he doin’?” 

“I don’t know,” admitted Sammy. 
“Inventing something, maybe.” 

“More than likely he’ll blow us all up 
one of these fine days,” grunted the 
storekeeper. The loungers nodded in 
agreement. “Here’s the train coming in. 
Hear it?” 

Sammy settled himself more com- 
fortably. “There ought to be a package 
for Stevie, then.” 

There was. The old man took the 
parcel and left the station. He stood for 
a time, watching the train disappear 
into the distance. Its whistle sang a 
seductive song that aroused nostalgia in 
Sammy’s bosom. He sighed, remember- 
ing the old days when he had been a 
hungry, carefree bindle-stiff. Well, he 
was better off now — well-fed and cared 



for, without any v/orries. But it was 
nice to hear a train whistle once in a 
while. 

He climbed into the roadster and 
zoomed off toward the mansion. Ten 
minutes later he let himself into the 
hall, to be met by an anxious-eyed girl 
in a white uniform. 

“Did it come?” she asked. 

“Sure, Marion. Here it is.” 

He gave her the parcel.' Holding it 
tightly, she turned and hurried away. 

Since Marion Barton’s arrival three 
years ago, she had become a fixture in 
the house. She had been hired, at first, 
as a temporary laboratory assistant, 
during the absence of the regular one. 
But she had interested young Court, who 
had seen surprising capabilities in her. 

The fact that Marion was altogether 
lovely — slim, brown-eyed, dark-haired, 
with a peach complexion and remark- 
ably kissable lips — meant nothing at all 
to Court. He merely catalogued her as 
a perfect physical specimen, thoroughly 
healthy, and concentrated on the more 
interesting occupation of investigating 
her mind. What he found there pleased 
him. 

“She’s intelligent,” he told Sammy, 
“and she is meticulously careful. I’ve 
never seen her make a mistake. She’s 
such a perfect assistant for me that we 
work in complete harmony. The girl 
seems to know exactly what I want, 
whether to hand me a scalpel or a lens, 
and she’s completely unemotional. I 
shall keep her on, Sammy, and train 
her.” 

“Uh-huh,” said the old man, nodding 
wisely. “She does all that, and she’s 
completely unemotional, eh? Well, may- 
be so. Sure she ain’t in love with you, 
Stevie?” 

“Rot!” Court snapped, but it made 
him think it was necessary to warn 
Marion. “I’ll pay you well,” he explained 
to her, “and give you an invaluable 
training. But I have no time for emo- 
tional unbalance. I cannot a/ford dis- 
tractions. Do you understand me?” 

“Well,” Marion obseryed with desper- 



26 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



ate levity, “I’ll wear horn-rimmed 
glasses if you want, and hoop-skirts if 
my legs distract you.” 

“Not at all. I merely mean that there 
must be no question of any — well, in- 
fatuation.” 

Marion was silent for a moment, 
though her eyes sparkled dangerously. 

“All right,” she said quietly. “I won’t 
fall in love with you, Mr. Court. Is that 
satisfactory?” 

“Quite,” Court said. 

He turned away, obviously dismissing 
the subject, while Marion glared at his 
retreating back. 

She was remembering this scene now 
as she went into Court’s laboratory. He 
was bent over a table, one eye to a mi- 
croscope, his lips tensely pursed. Marion 
waited till he had finished his count. He 
straightened and saw her. 

“Got it?” he asked calmly. “Good.” 
Court ripped open the package and 
drdw out a small, leather-bound note- 
book. Hastily he flipped through the 
pages. His strong, tanned face dark- 
ened. 

“Wait a minute, Marion,” he called as 
the girl moved to leave. “I want to talk 
to you.” 

“Yes?” 

“Er — this is New Year’s Eve, I know. 
Had you planned on doing anything to- 
night?” 

Marion’s brown eyes widened. She 
stared at him in amazement. Was he 
trying to date her? 

“Why, I did plan on — ” 

“I should appreciate it,” he said, with- 
out a trace of embarrassment, “if you 
would stay and help me with some re- 
search tonight. I regret having to say 
this, but it’s rather important. I want 
to verify certain tests.” 

“I’ll stay,” Marion assented briefly, 
but she flushed. 

“Good. Stain these slides, please.” 

For several hours the two worked in 
silence. Court engrossed with his micro- 
scope, the girl busy dying the samples. 
Finally Court exhausted a small tank 
and conducted experiments in the vacu- 



um that he had created. 

Time dragged on till the huge old 
house was utterly still. The chill of a 
Wisconsin winter blanketed it^^ making 
frost patterns on the window panes. 
Inside the room it was warm enough, 
though snow lay thickly on the ground 
outside. 

Presently Marion slipped out of the 
room, and returned bearing a tray of 
coffee and sandwiches. She set the tray 
on a table and glanced at Court. Stand- 
ing by a window, he was idly smoking a 
cigarette. 

“Mr. Court—” 

“What is it?” he asked, without look- 
ing around. His face was upturned to 
the quiet night outside as he spoke again, 
not waiting for her answer. “Come 
here.” 

Marion obeyed. She was astonished 
to see that his face was drawn and hag- 
gard, actually gray around the lips. But 
his eyes 'were feverishly bright. 

“Up there,” he said, pointing. “Do 
you see anything?” 

The cold stars glittered frostily in an 
abyss of empty black. Some icy breath 
of the unknown seemed to blow down 
from the frigid, airless seas between the 
planets. Marion shuddered. 

“I see nothing unusual,” she said. 

“Naturally. No one has. There’s 
nothing visible, and yet — ” Wearily he 
rubbed his forehead. “It’s impossible 
that my experiments have lied.” 

“Drink some coffee,” Marion urged. 

Court followed her to the table and 
sat down. As she poured the steaming 
liquid, his somber eyes dwelt on her face. 

“Are you game for an airplane trip 
into Canada?” he asked abruptly. 

“Yes. When?” 

“As soon as I can arrange it. There’s 
a man I must see, a — a patient.” He 
gulped down untasted coffee and blinked 
tiredly. 

“You should get at least a little sleep.” 

“Not yet. I don’t know — ” He came 
to a sudden decision. “Marion, you 
don’t know anything about this experi- 
ment I’m working on. No one knows 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 27 



about it yet, except me. All this data 
I’ve been collecting lately has been for 
a purpose. You haven’t any idea what 
that purpose is, have you?” 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“Well,” Court declared, with curious 
calm, “it’s simply this — I have reason 
to believe that the Earth is going to be 
destroyed. Wait a minute!” he cried 
hastily. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have men- 
tioned this till 1 was absolutely certain. 
But I want to talk to someone.” 

His unrealized loneliness showed 
naked for an unguarded second on his 
face. He caught himself, and was once 
more impassive. 

“The Earth is going to face a plague 
that will destroy civilization. Of that, 
at least, I am certain.” 

“A plague!” she breathed. 

“I call it that, for lack of a better 
term. Every being on this planet will 
be affected by it.” 

Marion looked at him sharply. Her 
lovely eyes narrowed. 



“Affected? Don’t you mean de- 
stroyed?” 

Court pushed back his chair and rose. 

“No,” he whispered, “I don’t.” His 
grave lips went hard. "Come here, 
Marion. Look at this.” 

He strode to a safe in the wall, 
opened it, and withdrew a small oblong 
box of lead. Set in one face was a round, 
transparent disc. 

“Look through the lens,” he com- 
manded. “Don’t get too close to that 
thing, though.” 

Marion obeyed. Through the tiny 
pane, she could see within the box a 
shining lump of matter, no larger than 
the nail of her thumb. 

“It’s phosphorescent,” she said. 
“What is it — an ore ?” 

“A specimen of flesh taken from the 
thigh of a man named Pierre Locicault, 
a French-Canadian.” 

“Flesh ?” The girl peered again at the 
object. “Was he exposed to radium?” 

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Court replaced the box in the safe. 
“No, nothing like that. Locicault lived 
in a little settlement in a valley in the 
wilderness. A month ago he staggered 
into the nearest town, emaciated and 
nearly dead. His story was just about 
unbelievable. He claimed that one day 
a heavy fog — abnormally heavy — blank- 
eted his valley, and affected the inha- 
bitants peculiarly. They became incre- 
dibly hungry, ate enormous meals. Their 
skin became hot to the point of high 
fever. And they grew so old that most 
of them died. Locicault went for help, 
but nobody recognized him when he ar- 
rived in town. He looked thirty years 
older. What does that suggest to you, 
Marion?” 

“Increased metabolism,” she said un- 
hesitatingly. 

“Exactly. A rescue party was sent 
out. They found the corpses of a dozen 
old men and women in the valley, but no 
sign of what had killed them. There was 
no sign of a fog, nor of anything dan- 
gerous. Meanwhile, Locicault was luckily 
put into an isolation ward in the hos- 
pital. He ate tremendously. It was no- 
ticed that his skin emitted radiation. 
In the dark, his body actually shone.” 
Court lit a cigarette for a few ab- 
stracted puffs before continuing. 

“His nurse caught the contagion,” he 
said then. “She killed herself. Locicault 
is kept in utter isolation now, for there 
isn’t a doctor or a nurse who dares get 
near him. When Dr. Granger wired me, 
I suggested lead insulation, so he could 
obtain this specimen for me to study. I 
want to see Locicault and make further 
experiments upon him.” 

Marion frowned. “You have other 
evidence, of course?” 

“Naturally. Similar cases have been 
reported to me. This isn’t anything 
new. Do you remember, about seven 
years ago, a newspaper story about a 
valley in France where the inhabitants 
were killed by a heavy fog? It was at- 
tributed to poison gas. Do you remem- 
ber that West Indian island where life 
was wined out overnight, without any 



explanation at all ? People talked about 
volcanic gas. My files are full of ap- 
parently meaningless items like that. 
Freaks and sports born to animals and 
humans. So-called ghost stories about 
apparitions that shone in the dark. 
There are dozens of other examples.” 

The girl shuddered as she thought of 
the tag of flesh she had seen. 

“And do you think this is the begin- 
ning of a plague?” 

“My graphs and charts show an up- 
ward swing. These occurences happen 
more frequently as time goes on. What- 
ever causes them is growing more pow- 
erful.” 

“But what could cause such a thing?” 
the girl asked. “No virus could — ” 

“Not a virus. Filterable or not, they 
could not cause cellular radioactivity. 
This menace — this unknown X — is 
certainly not a virus. I don’t know its 
nature, nor where it comes from. Till 
I know those factors, I can do nothing.” 

“Could it be a weapon of war?” Mari- 
on suggested. 

“You mean — Well, scarcely! Once 
it’s started, it’s completely uncontrol- 
lable. X isn’t man-made, for its record 
goes back too far for chemistry. It’s a 
natural phenom.enon, and our only clue 
is fog.” 

“A gas?” 

Court nodded, and his eyes grew 
distant with thought. 

“Where does it come from. Under the 
Earth? That’s possible, of course, but 
hardly any of these cases have occurred 
in volcanic country. I think X comes 
from the interstellar void.” 

Marion’s eyes widened in horrified 
realization. 

“That’s why you’ve been getting those 
observatory reports! Photographs and 
spectra.” 

Court grunted impatiently. “They 
showed nothing, and that’s what I can’t 
understand.” 

“Maybe the conditions aren’t right,” 
Marion suggested. “Phosphorescence 
isn’t visible in daylight. Perhaps X isn’t 
visible in space.” 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 29 



Court didn’t move, but his fingers 
broke his cigarette in two. 

“What was that?” he demanded, 
startled. 

Before the girl could reply, he whis- 
tled sharply and turned to the window. 

“Of course. A catalyst! Some ele- 
ment in our atmosphere makes X visible, 
and perhaps dangerous as well. In outer 
space it can’t be seen, but when it comes 
in contact with some element in the air 
— I think you’ve got it, Marion !” 

He stared grimly at the dark sky. 

“Up there, yet it’s invisible. Perhaps 
a cosmically huge cloud of it is drifting 
eternally through space. We’re probably 
on the outer fringes, so we’ve touched 
only a few tiny, scattered wisps. When 
Earth plunges into the main body—” 

Court lifted a clenched fist, furious 
because he was such a tiny, insignificant 
figure against the mighty concourse of 
the starry void. 

“An element so alien that we can 
scarcely conceive of it! We can realize 
it exists only by seeing its effects on 
Earth. What is it? What physical laws 
govern that frightful matter? Or is it 
matter, as we know it?” He turned sud- 
denly, his eyes hard and detnniined. 
“We’re leaving for Canada. Charter a 
plane. I’ll pack the equipment I will 
need.” 

Marion paused at the door. 

“Mr. Court — ” she began, and hes- 
itated. 

“Well?” 

Somehow, though, she could find no 
words. In her mind was the picture of 
Court at the window, challenging the 
Universe. A champion of mankind, he 
had made a magnificent gesture. 

But then Marion saw his cold,- grim 
eyes. Reading the expression in them, 
her face whitened as she realized sud- 
denly that Court cared nothing at all 
for mankind. His motives were passion- 
lessly selfish. 

He was not a champion. He was a 
scientist, cold, calculating, egocentric, 
challenging an opponent that threatened 
his existence. 



Whatever she had meant to say died 
in her throat, J ust as something died in 
her heart. She went out of the room 
and closed the door quietly behind her. 

V 

Mt was dark in the forest, though 
sunlight filtered down wanly through 
the branches. Truly the Earth had 
changed since Ardath had first set foot 
upon it. 

He was not entirely pleased as h@ 
strode along, matching step with the 
gigantic Thordred. It did not seem to 
him that this world would be a suitable 
dwelling place. Thousands of years 
had passed since Ardath had taken 
Thordred from his home. Weary cen- 
turies had passed in ageless slumber, 
and a new civilization had risen. But 
somehow Ardath did not feel at home. 
He sensed a subtle strangeness in the 
very air about him. 

He sighed a little wearily. His plans 
had gone amiss. The death of Zana, the 
Amazon queen, had taken him by sur- 
prise. He had hoped to retain her as a 
mate for Thordred, but without appar- 
ent cause, the woman’s sleep had 
changed to death. 

A fleeting suspicion of Thordred had 
passed through Ardath’s mind, but he 
dismissed it. Though he had several 
poisons which might have caused such 
symptoms, Thordred could not possibly 
know of their existence nor how to use 
them. Not by a word or a thought had 
Thordred revealed that his brain held 
all the knowledge that previously had 
been Ardath’s alone. 

The two of them had set out to ex- 
amine this new civilization, leaving the 
space ship safely hidden in the forest. 

■ They had captured two natives, learned 
their language by means of the thought- 
transference machine, and taken their 
clothing. With all memory of the en- 
counter wiped from their minds by 
means of Ardath’s strange science, the 
natives were released. 

“They are puny folk today.’!. Thor- 



30 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



dred said, his savage face twisting into 
a grin as he shifted the toga about his 
broad shoulders. “These garments 
scarcely cover me.” 

“Our own garments might have 
caused comments,” Ardath explained. 
“Let us hope that your size won’t mark 
you for an alien.” 

Thordred spat in vicious contempt. 

“I don’t fear these weaklings. Why 
can I not carry a weapon. Lord?” 

“I am armed,” Ardath said quietly. 
The huge Earthling did not answer. 
He had not wished to accompany Ardath 
on this expedition. If Thordred could 
have remained in the ship, he would 
have had free access to the laboratory. 
After that, there would be no need to 
fear Ardath or anyone else. But he 
had not dared object when his captor 
ordered him to follow. 

The forest thinned and the two men 
came out into blinding sunlight. Start- 
ing at their feet, tlie ground sloped down 
to a broad, shallow basin, a valley where 
a city lay. To the north was the serrated 
horizon of mountain peaks. Apparently 
they were volcanoes, for smoke plumed 
up lazily from one and spread in a dark 
blot against the blue sky. 

“This is their chief city,” Ardath 
stated. “Remember, if anyone asks, we 
are farmers from the outer provinces.” 
Thordred nodded, grinning more 
broadly than before. A farmer! His 
mighty hands were accustomed to sword- 
hilts, not the handles of plows. But he 
had good reason not to argue. 

The metropolis was unwalled. Several 
unpaved but well-trodden roads led into 
it, along which wains and wagons were 
creaking in and out. Most of the houses 
were of wood, some of stone, and a few 
of marble. Those built of marble were 
mostly temples. 

Crowds filled the streets. There 
seemed to be two types of beings here. 
The roughly-clad, bronzed peasant class, 
walked or drove their wagons. The aris- 
tocracy were carried in palanquins. 
There were soldiers, too, armed horse- 
men who nevertheless seemed slight 



compared with Thordred’s giant frame. 

“Here,” Ardath said, nodding toward 
a low doorway. “Taverns are good 
places to hear gossip.” _ 

They entered the inn, found them- 
selves in a large room, broad and long, 
but low-raftered. The stench of wine 
and beer was choking. Lamps illu- 
minated the darker corners. Crude 
tables were set here and there, at which 
men lounged, drinking, cursing and 
laughing. Two bearded seamen were 
throwing dice on the floor. 

“We are thirsty,” Ardath said to the 
waiter who appeared. 

He did not drink from the wine-cup 
that was set before him. Thordred, 
however, drained his at a gulp, and 
shouted for more. 

“You are strangers here?” the inn- 
keeper asked. 

TTE TOOK the coins Ardath gave him 
— curious bronze disks engraved 
with a cross within a circle. They had 
come from the pockets of the two na- 
tives Ardath had captured. 

“Yes. It is our first visit.” 

“You come to trade?” 

“No,” Ardath replied. “We are here 
to catch a glimpse of the woman whose 
fame has traveled even to the outer 
provinces. Men say that her beauty is 
blinding.” 

“So?’’ the landlord asked, his eye- 
brows lifting. “What is her name?” 
“That I do not know,” Ardath said. 
“But I can draw her features.” 

He took from his garments a stylus 
of his own devising and hastily sketched 
a face on the boards of the table. The 
likeness was so nearly photographic that 
the innkeeper instantly recognized it. 

“By the fountain, you are an artist ! 
That’s Jansaiya, the priestess. She’s 
beautiful enough, or so men say, only 
you can’t see her. The priestesses of 
Dagon never leave their temple, and 
men can worship only during the Sea 
Festival. Once a year, men gaze on 
Jansaiya as she serves the god. You 
have ten months to wait.” 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 31 



“I see,” Ardath said, his face falling 
unhappily. “And where is this temple ?” 

Having learned the directions, they 
left the inn. 

“Why do you wish to see this wench ?” 
Thordred grunted. 

“She is the wisest in this time,” Ar- 
dath said. “I learned that before we 
landed here.” 

Hovering high over the land in his 
space ship, he had locatel Jansaiya with 
his ray device, and noted her high in- 
telligence. The unexpected death of 
Zana the Amazon still rankled in him. 
He had determined to secure a substi- 
tute, and Jansaiya was the logical one. 
She would accompany Ardath and Thor- 
dred into Time, for he had decided not 
to remain- in this civilization. It did not 
fulfill his requirenients. 

The two men reached the outskirts of 
the temple. As yet Ardath had not de- 
cided on any definite plan, knowing that 
first he must find the priestess. 

“Wait here,” he said. “Do not move 
away till I return.” 

The giant drew back in the shelter of 
a tree, watching Ardath cross the 
thoroughfare toward a gate where a 
soldier lounged on his spear. 

The guard straightened, ready to 
challenge the Kyrian’s entry into the 
city. Suddenly his eyes went blank and 
blind as they met Ardath’s. Ordinary 
hypnotism worked well on these super- 
stitious folk. 

Ardath went through the gate. The 
bulk of a temple rose before him. Built 
of porphyry and onyx and rose marble, 
it seemed to rest on the sward as lightly 
as gossamer. Despite its hugeness, it 
had been constructed with an eye for 
proportion, so that it was utterly lovely, 
a symphony in stone. A curving stair- 
way rose toward bronze gates that stood 
ajar, with a soldier on guard at each 
side. 

Quietly Ardath went on. The guards 
did not move, once they had felt the 
impact of his gaze. 

He entered the temple, found it vast, 
with a high-arched dome, and smoky 



with incense. The floor was green as the 
sea. Jade-green, too, was the flat-topped 
altar that loomed before him. 

Behind the altar the sacred trident 
reared, and smoke coiled lazily about 
its prongs. A shaven headed, soft-faced 
priest turned to face Ardath. 

“You have come to pay homage to 
Dagon,” he said, rather than asked. 
“Where are your tributes ? Do you come 
empty-handed ?” 

Ardath decided to change his tacticg. 
He fixed his stare upon the priest, sum- 
moning all his will. The man hesitated, 
spoke a few thick words, and drew back. 

“You — seem strange,” he muttered. 
“Your form changes.” 

To the hypnotized priest it seemed as 
though a light mist had gathered about 
Ardath’s body. It thickened and swirled, 
and suddenly where had been the figure 
of a man was something entirely dif- 
ferent. 

It was Dagon, the sea god, as the 
priest pictured him in his own imagina- 
tion! 

^HE MAN went chalk-white. He col- 

lapsed on the floor, so paralyzed with 
fright and amazement that for a mo- 
ment Ardath feared he had fainted. 

“You know me,” Ardath said softly. 

“Great Master, forgive your serv- 
ant — ” 

The priest babbled frantic incoherent 
prayers that sounded like gibberish, 

“Bring the priestess, Jansaiya, to 
me,” Ardath commanded. 

“At once! At once!” 

The man backed behind a tapestry 
and was gonev Ardath lifted ironic eye- 
brows, for this was altogether too easy. 
When he felt under his robe for certain 
weapons he had brought with him from 
the ship, he nodded. Hypnotism was a 
ticklish trick. It was undependable, 
whereas weapons were not. 

But the priest returned, leading a 
veiled, slight, feminine figure. Bothl 
bowed to the floor. 

Ardath lifted the girl to her feet. He 
pulled aside the veil, found that no de- 



32 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



ception had been practised upon him. 
This was the priestess, the beautiful 
Jansaiya. 

VI 

ONDERFULLY lovely she was, 
with elfin, childlike features that some- 
how held a certain sophistication, and 
even a suggestion of inherent, latent 
cruelty. Her hair was bright gold, her 
eyes sea-green. Though she was as 
small as a nereid, her delicately sym- 
etrical figure was not in the least child- 
like. 

She came closer to Ardath. Suddenly 
he felt a searing pain on his arm and 
drew away sharply. 

“This is no god!” Jansaiya cried, her 
voice like tinkling silver bells. “Blood 
flows through his veins. He is human, 
and an impostor!” 

She drew away, a small dagger still 
clenched in her hand. Ardath glanced 
wryly at the long scratch on his arm, 
yet he caught the quick stir of move- 
ment. 

As though by magic, the temple was 
full of shaven-headed priests. From be- 
hind the tapestried walls they came 
swiftly, forming a ring about Ardath. 
Their steel swords glittered no less cold- 
ly than their eyes. 

“We, too, know something of hypno- 
tism,” one of them rasped in contempt. 
“There are ways of testing even gods.” 

Ardath thought quickly. His foes 
were at least two score. Hypnotism 
would be useless now, but he had other 
weapons. Under his gown was a projec- 
tor that would have slain every priest in 
the temple, if he had cared to use it. 

He did not. Ardath’s alien philosophy 
forbade the unnecesary taking of life. 
Instead, his hand, hidden in a fold of the 
toga, moved almost imperceptibly. A 
tiny crystalline sphere dropped to the 
green tiles of the floor and Ardath put 
his sandaled foot over it. 

“Do you yield?” the leader of the 
priests asked. 

Ardath smashed the globe with the 



sole of his shoe, holding his breath. 

Instantly a colorless, odorless gas dif- 
fused through the temple. The priests 
no longer could move. Frozen statue 
like, they stood gripping their weapons 
and staring blindly straight ahead. 
The gas had a certain anesthetic quality 
which warped their time-sense and 
slowed down their reactions tremendous- 
ly. To their slowed vision, it seemed as 
though Ardath vanished instantaneous- 
ly when he stepped aside. 

Hastily he loolced around, still holding 
his breath. The temple was silent. No 
new enemy had appeared. Ardath 
wrenched a sword from a motionless 
priest and held it lightly in his right 
hand. He strode quickly to the priestess 
and lifted her under one arm. Ardath 
was no giant, but his muscles were steel- 
strong, and Jansaiya was light. 

Carrying his captive, he hurried out 
of the temple. 

The two guards at the gate had not 
moved. They remained passive as Ar- 
dath descended the stairs and went 
through the outer portal into the street. 
The sentry there was also motionless and 
silent. 

But behind Ardath rose a clamor and 
an outcry. 

Nowhere could huge Thordred be 
seen. He had not waited. Perhaps he 
had been taken prisoner. 

Ardath’s first step now was to return 
to the ship. After that, when the Kyr- 
ian gathered more resources, Thordred 
could be rescued. But at that moment 
there was no time for delay. 

Bending low, Ardath ran along the 
street. The noise of pursuit followed 
close behind him, abruptly swelling to a 
thunder of iron hoofs. Down upon the 
Kyrian rode a horseman in glittering 
armor, sword lifted in menace. The 
bearded soldier shouted a searing curse. 
Out of the temple gates the priests 
'poured. 

“Slay him!” they yelled, as they raced 
after Ardath. “Slay him!” 

Ardath had no time to employ any 
weapon but the sword that was bare in 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 33 



his hand. He threw Jansaiya aside, out 
of danger. Quickly he reversed the 
blade, gripping it by the point. As the 
horseman thundered down, he flung the 
steel like a club. 

The street exploded into a blinding 
blur of action. Ardath dodged aside as 
ringing hoofs clashed on the pavement. 
The soldier’s sword screamed ominous- 
ly through the air, but Ardath’s missile 
had found its mark. Its heavy hilt had 
smashed against the horseman’s bare 
forehead. The man was slumped in his 
saddle, unconscious. The weight of his 
sword had completed the slash. 

Instantly Ardath was at the reins. He 
dragged the soldier down . and sprang 
lightly into the saddle. He wheeled the 
mount. Reaching low over the side, he 
picked up Jansaiya and gently though 
swiftly put the limp figure across the 
saddle before him. The horse reared and 
charged down the street, scattering yell- 
ing priests before its thundering hoofs. 

■j^EVER before had Ardath ridden a 

' horse, nor even seen one of its kind. 
But eons ago, in the Miocene Age, he 
had studied the small, fleet Neohippar- 
ion. He instantly recognized the simil- 
arity between the modern and the pre- 
historic desert horse. Animals had never 
feared nor distrusted Ardath, for he 
Understood them too well. The steed 
responded to the least touch of his hands 
and heels. Through the city it raced. 

Three times Ardath had to use his 
sword, but only to disarm. It was not 
necessary to kill. Suddenly, then, the 
city was behind him, and he was racing 
up the slope toward the forest. 

It was already late afternoon. The 
shadows lay long and dark on the sward. 
Ardath cast a glance behind him, saw 
that a horde of horsemen were riding 
hard in pursuit. He shrugged indiflter- 
ently and looked down at Jansaiya. 

Undisturbed, she still slept. He stud- 
ied her face, realizing that it was lovely 
beyond imagination, though the perfect 
lips were somewhat arrogant, a little 
cruel. With his knowledge to combat 



those traits, he could make her a fit mate 
for any superior man. 

But what had happened to Thordred? 
Ardath was beginning to grow worried. 
He could do nothing till he reached the 
ship, though. 

It was sunset before he did. The Ti- 
tanic sphere rose above the treetops as 
it lay cradled in a clearing. A port was 
wide open, just as he had left it, but 
across the gap shimmered a pallid cur- 
tain of white radiance. 

Ardath reined in, sprang from the 
saddle. Snatching down Jansaiya in his 
arms, he called out sharply: 

“Thordred!” 

Instantly the giant came out of a 
thicket, his savage face inscrutable. 

“Follow me,” Ardath commanded 
briefly, and went toward the ship. 

As he neared the port, the flickering 
curtain died. He entered, carrying his 
burden, and Thordred followed. 

Ardath turned when they were all in- 
side. The horse was quietly grazing 
where he had left it. When he heard the 
distant sound of shouting, constantly 
growing louder, Ardath sighed. He put 
Jansaiya down and closed the port. Seat- 
ing himself without haste at the control 
panel, he sent the ship arrowing up 
from the forest. 

The vessel hung in the air, hovering ^ 
motionless. Ardath turned to Thordred. 

“You tried to enter the ship,” he said 
quietly. “I had forbidden that. Why 
did you try to do so ?” 

Thordred flushed, trying to evade that 
piercing though gentle stare. I 

“I came as far as the temple doors. ' 
When I saw the priests capture you, I 
thought you were helpless. I was un- 
armed, so I came back to the ship to I 
find some weapon to aid you.” | 

For a long, tense moment, Ardath’s 
‘inscrutable gaze dwelt on the giant. 

“No one can enter here save by my 
will,” he said. “You would do well to 
obey me in future.” 

Thordred nodded hastily and changed 
the subject. 

“The girl is awakeninac.” 



34 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Jansaiya’s green eyes slowly opened. 
The instant she saw Ardath, horror and 
hatred sprang into her gaze. 

She looked then at the crafty Thor- 
dred. Suddenly and unmistakably, the 
giant Earthling realized that he had 
found an ally against Ardath. But he 
said nothing. He waited, silent and pas- 
sive, while Ardath spoke to Jansaiya in 
her own language, explaining why she 
had been abducted. 

She listened attentively, and the Kyr- 
ian knew she did not regard him as a 
god or a demon. Not for nothing had he 
sought out the most intelligent human 
of this particular time. 

^HE SUN was setting when Ai'dath 
finished his explanation. Through 
the transparent window of a port, they 
could see the land that stretched be- 
neath them, green and beautiful. Smoke 
plumed up from the volcanic range. The 
city, tiny and white, lay in the distance. 

“You intend to put me to sleep?” Jan- 
saiya asked incredulously. “For a thous- 
and years?” 

“A thousand or more,” Ardath said 
quietly. “Your civilization does not suit 
my needs. Do you love it so well that 
you would refuse ?” 

“No,” she responded. “Return to be 
imprisoned in Dagon’s temple once 
more? No, I am glad to be free! But to 
have to leave my world forever — ” 

“Kingdoms die,” Ardath pointed out. 
“Civilizations pass like shadows. When 
we awake, perhaps no man will remem- 
ber your land.” 

Jansaiya rose and went to the port. 
The red Sun cast bloody light on her 
face. 

“You are wrong,” she whispered. “I 
am your prisoner. I have no choice but 
to obey. Yet if we sleep for a hundred 
thousand years, men will not forget my 
kingdom. All over Earth our ships car- 
ry wondrous goods. Our civilization is 
the mightiest in the world. It cannot 
die or pass. It will go on, through the 
ages, growing mightier. Not even the 
gods can destroy this land. Not even 



Dagon, Lord of the Sea, can destroy At- 
lantis!” 

VII 

Stephen court left fm- Canada 

on the 2nd of January, 1941. His cabin 
plane contained two passengers and a 
good deal of equipment. Marion Barton 
went with him, and he had allowed Sam- 
my to go along. The old man had been 
made over in every other respect, but 
wanderlust can be removed from a man 
only by the surgery of death. 

“I won’t be no trouble, Stevie,” he had 
argued. “I get itchy feet this time of 
year, and besides, I never rode in an air- 
plane. Anyhow” — his watery eyes had 
narrowed cunningly — “you’ll need a 
handyman to do odd jobs. I can help you 
unpack and do other things.” 

To save argument that would waste 
time. Court had agreed. It was a clear, 
bitingly cold day when the plane took 
off from the Wisconsin flying field. 
Luckily the weather reports were good. 
Though there was no danger of snow. 
Court flew at low' altitude, fearing that 
ice would form on the wings. 

The excitement of hurtling the plane 
at high speed made him uncharacteris- 
tically talkative. His gaunt cheeks were 
flushed, and he chatted with the others 
with unusual animation and warmth. 
Sammy did not talk much, but he lis- 
tened, and occasionaly asked a ques- 
tion. 

“Plague, eh ?” he said once. “I w'as in 
the South once when a plague hit. It 
was pretty awful. Kids and women — -we 
couldn’t bury ’em fast enough. I sure 
hope it ain’t like that.” 

“We’ll see,” Court said. “I can’t do 
much till I examine this fellow Locicault. 
For that matter — ” He frowned, pon- 
dering. “I really haven’t enough equip- 
ment with me. I’ve got to bring Loci- 
cault back to my lab.” 

“But you say it’s contagious,” Marion 
protested. “How can he travel?” 

“I’ve arranged that. I’m having an 
ambulance made ready. It’ll be plated 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 35 



with several thicknesses of lead, which 
ought to make it safe enough. They’re 
sending the car after me as soon as it’s 
ready.” 

“Oh,” Marion said. 

She fell silent, watching the mountains 
and lakes glide past below. 

“You know,” Court observed after a 
time, “I came across an interesting an- 
gle, a completely unexpected one. I’ve 
been getting photographs from most of 
the observatories. While I found no 
trace of my X in space, I did notice 
something else — a satellite of some kind 
circling the Earth. No one’s noticed it 
before, because it’s so small and travels 
so fast. But it seems to be made of ho- 
mogeneous metal.” 

“Iron ?” 

“Smooth metal, Marion. Not pitted 
and rough, as an asteroid would be. It’s 
made of pure gold, or some yellow metal 
that resembles ^old.” 

The girl looked sharply at Court, 

“A space ship?” 



“Possibly. But why wouldn’t it 
come down, if it is a ship? Has it been 
circling the Earth for ages?” 

“But where could it have come 
from ?” 

“Some ancient civilization might have 
mastered space travel, though I doubt 
that. If it is a space ship, it probably 
came from some other planet.” 

“There’s nothing in history about it,” 
Marion said. “If one space ship could 
come here, probably so would a lot 
more.” 

“Nothing in history? No, but there’s 
a lot in mythology and folklore. I’m just 
guessing, of course. I’m anxious to find 
out more about that highly unnatural 
satellite.” 

She was silent, fascinated by the 
thought. 

“How can you reach it?” she finally 
asked. 

“It looks impossible,” he admitted. 
“Space travel is impossible to us today. 

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38 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



That’S one reason — You see, Marion, if 
it really is a space ship, it may mean 
Earth’s salvation. To be completely ra- 
tional, we must consider that perhaps 
the plague can’t be conquered. If it is a 
space ship, we may be able to leave 
Earth and go to another planet. If those 
worlds are also in danger, we could leave 
the System. We couldn’t do that with 
modern rocket fuels. Suppose that 
strangely colored satellite is a genuine 
space ship, one that has already trav- 
eled across the interstellar void. Re- 
pairing it would be less work than in- 
venting one.” 

“It’s worth trying,” Marion breathed 
hopefully. 

“I may fail. That’s why I want to 
find out more about X. The space ship’s 
a dangerously long chance, and I don’t 
want to gamble evei*ything on one throw 
of the dice. When I see Locicault — ” 

^IME wore on. Sammy asked innum- 
merable questions about the plague, 
but when he exhausted his curiosity, he 
went to sleep. The plane sped over the 
border and into Canada. 

It was afternoon before they reached 
the landing field. An automobile met 
them and took them into town, another 
following v/ith Sammy and the equip- 
ment. At the hospital they were greeted 
by Dr. Granger, a shriveled gnome of 
a man with one tuft of white hair stand- 
ing straight up from his bald skull. 

“Court!” he said in relief. “Am I glad 
you’re here! Are you hungry?” 

“No.” Characteristically Court did 
not bother to introduce anyone. 
“Where’s the patient?” 

“In the left wing of the hospital. 
We’ve cleared out everyone else. You’ll 
have to put on the lead suit. We have 
only one, unfortunately.” 

Court seemed transformed into a 
swift, emotionless machine. He hastily 
donned the form-fitting suit of canva's, 
with leaden scales sewed closely over 
the surface. As he followed Granger to 
the door, the physician paused. 

“I’d better not go farther. I don’t 



know exactly how far the radiation ex- 
tends. It wilts gold-leaf at quite some 
distance.” 

Court nodded, got his directions, and 
clumped ponderously out the door. He 
went along the corridor until he found 
the patient’s room. Any other man 
would have hesitated before entering, 
but Court was not like any other man. 
Without stopping, he pushed open the 
door. 

The bare, white-walled chamber was 
spotlessly sterile. A case of instruments 
lay open on a table, a hypodermic needle 
in view. On the bed a man was sprawled. 

Peering through lead-infiltrated gog- 
gles, Court came closer. Locicault was 
unconscious. No, he was asleep. His 
spare, wasted frame had barely flesh 
enough to make a visible shape under 
the coverlets. On the pillow lay the 
withered, skull-face of an incredibly old 
man. 

Locicault was twenty-three years of 
age. 

His mouth was toothless. Hanging 
open helplessly, it revealed his ugly, 
blackened gums. His skull was hairless, 
with ears that were large and mal- 
formed, and his nose too, was enlarged. 
The repulsive skin dangled in loose, sag- 
ging wrinkles. Pouches hung slack on 
his naked skull. 

Court w'ent ta the window and drew 
down the shades. In the gloom a queer, 
silvery light was visible at once. It came 
from the patient’s face! 

Court stripped olf the covers, expo- 
sing Locicault’s gaunt, nude body. Like 
the ghastly face, it gleamed with a sil- 
very radiance that did not pulse or wane, 
but remained steady. 

“Locicault,” Court called out sharply. 

When he gripped- the thin shoulder, 
the man shuddered convulsively and his 
eyes opened. 

They were not human eyes. They 
were pools of white radiance, like shin- 
ing smoke in eye-sockets. 

“Locicault, can you hear me?” Court 
asked quietly. 

A cracked whisper came from the 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 37 



Withered lips of the Canadian. 

“Yes — Yes, m’sieu.” 

“Can you see me?” 

“I can — No, m’sieu, not with my eyes. 
I am blind, but I can see you, some- 
how.” 

Court frowned, puzzled, as he pon- 
dered the weird reply. 

“What do you see?” 

“You are covered with — armor, I 
think, I do not know how I can tell this. 
I am blind.” 

“I am a doctor,” Court said. “If you 
can talk without pain, I want you to 
answer some questions.” 

“Qui, m’sieu. Bien.” 

“Are you in pain?” 

“No — ^yes. I am hungry. It is strange. 
I am hungry and thirsty, but I do not 
want food. Something I do not under- 
stand.” 

Court waited for him to continue. 
When Locicault did not, he went on with 
another line of reasoning. 

“Tell me about this fog.” 

“There is not much to tell,” Locicault 
said painfully. “When I left my home, 
I could not find my way. The fog was 
so heavy — and its smell was not right.” 
Stephen’s eyes sparkled with interest 
under the thick mask. 

“How did it smell? What did it re- 
mind you of?” 

“I don’t know. Wait! Once I was in 
the big power-house at the dam, and it 
smelled like that.” 

Ozone? Court shook his head. 

“Well?” he urged. 

“The fog was cold at first, and then 
it seemed to grow warmer. I had the 
strange feeling it was getting inside of 
me. My lungs began to burn like fire. 
My heart beat faster. I was hungry, yet 
I had just eaten — Doctor,” Locicault 
said suddenly, without moving, “I am 
changing, more and more. When it 
started, I did not change much, but now 
— I feel like something that is not a 
man. Can you hear my voice?” 

“Yes,” Court soothed. 

“That is odd. My mind is so wonder- 
fully clear, but my senses — I do not 



seem to hear with my ears, nor speak 
with my tongue. I feel strong, though, 
and hungry — ” 

His scrawny head slumped, and Court 
saw that he had lost consciousness. 

Whistling softly, with grim abstrac- 
tion, Court returned to the main hos- 
pital where the others waited. Doffing 
his suit, he questioned Granger. , 

“It’s progressive, isn’t it? Doesn’t 
the radiation get stronger?” 

“Why, yes,” the physician replied. 
“For a time, anyway. Locicault was 
fearfully hungry. His metabolism was 
high, and this radiation got stronger 
every time we fed him. Yesterday, 
though, he refused to eat.” 

“But he’s hungry,” Stephen protested. 
“So he says, and still he won’t eat. 
The radiation is much fainter now.” 

“I see,” Court muttered. “Get me a 
guinea-pig, will you? A rabbit will do 
just as well, if you don’t have a guinea- 
pig. I want to try something.” 

Putting on the armor again and car- 
rying a wriggling guinea-pig. Court 
went back to the patient. Locicault was 
still unconscious. For the first time. 
Court hesitated, staring at the pale aura 
surrounding Locicault’s body. Then he 
slowly extended the guinea-pig till its 
furry side touched the patient’s hand. 

Gently the weak, bony fingers con- 
stricted. Closing upon the tiny animal, 
they did not harm it though it struggled 
frantically to escape. 

The little beast went limp, seemed, 
amazingly, to grow smaller. Swiftly the 
phosphorescent gleam surrounding Loci- 
cault grew brighter. 

“So that’s the way!” Court muttered 
under his breath. 

He disengaged the guinea-pig from 
the skeleton fingers and examined the 
animal. It was dead, as he had expected. 
Court silently returned to the others. 

“You haven’t been feeding him the 
right way,” he explained, struggling out 
of the armor. He gave it to Granger, 
who put it on. “Locicault is changing, 
slowly and steadily, into some form of 
life that is definitely not human. At 



38 FANTASTIC STOKY MAGAZINE 



first he ate normally though in vast 
quantity. As his basic matter altered, 
Locicault lost the power to absorb food 
as we do, internally. He gets the energy 
direct — like a vampire, to put it melo- 
dramatically. He will kill any living be- 
ing that touches him.” 

“Good God!” Granger cried in a 
shocked voice. “We can't let him live. 
Court 1” 

“We must, because I need him. I have 
to study the course of the plague in 
its natural progress. Locicault must be 
fed whatever he needs now — rabbits, 
guinea-pigs, and so on. I shall take him 
to my home as soon as the special am- 
bulance gets here.” 

Sammy shuffled forward, wide-eyed 
with fear, but desperately stern. 

“Stevie, don’t take any chances.” 
Court ignored the old man as he 
ignored everyone else when his mind 
was absorbed. 

“Marion, unpack my equipment. The 
ambulance should be here by tomorrow 
or the next day. In the meantime, I 
want to check every angle. Be sure that 
there’s a supply of small animals for 
the patient. I don’t know yet how much 
energy he needs, but he’s broadcasting 
it at a terrific rate.” 

Granger, clumsy in the lead suit, left 
the room. Court looked at his watch. 

“Lucky I got here in time. If Loci- 
cault had died — ” 

“Can you save him?” Marion asked 
eagerly. 

“Of course not! I don’t want to, even 
if I could. I want to stop the plague, 
and to do that, I must watch it run its 
course in a test subject. Locicault hap- 
pens to be the only one we know about. 
There may be new cases at any time, 
but I can’t afford to wait. For all I 
know, there may never be another case 
till the final crack-up. Then it will be 
too late to do anything.” 

“What do you intend?” Marion asked, 
trying to hide her disappoinment. 

“I shall take Locicault back home 
with me, keep him in isolation, and feed 
him whatever may be necessary. Even- 



tually the plague will run its course. 
Locicault may not die, but he may have 
to be destroyed.” 

The door slammed open. Granger 
burst into the room, ripped off the lead 
suit. His gnomish face was gray with 
horror. 

“Court, he’s dead!” 

“What?” Court’s jaw trembled with 
Indecision. “No, he can’t be. It’s un- 
consciousness—” But already he was 
snatching the suit from Granger. “Get 
me adrenalin, quick, another guinea- 
pig!” 

They sprang to obey. Bearing his 
equipment. Court raced away. The min- 
utes ticked slowly past, lagging unen- 
durably. At last he came back, his shoul- 
ders slumped. 

“You’re right. Granger,” he muttered. 
“Locicault’s dead. I was too late.” 

“You — ” the physician hesitated, bit- 
ing his lips in helplessness — “you’ll 
w'ant to have an autopsy?” 

“No, it’s no use. I must watch the 
progress of the plague on a living being. 
A corpse is no good for my purposes. 
I must wait. Perhaps the plague will 
strike again. I — I don’t know.” 

Court went to the window and looked 
out, his back to the others. 

“Take precautions with the burial,” 
he said after a ■ time, speaking in a 
strange, tight voice. “The contagion can 
still be spread. No one must touch him 
without lead-armor. You will cremate 
him, of course.” 

Marion came across the room to stand 
beside him. 

“You’re not giving up, are you?” she 
whispered. 

“No, but I’m at a dead end now. 
Every hour I delay m.ay mean — ” 

The. others had shuffled despondently 
out of the room. . 

“We’re going back, then?” Marion 
asked. 

“Yes. I’ll take a few specimens from 
Locicault’s body, but it’s useless. I can’t 
bring back life to a dead man. Damn 
him!” he snarled with sudden fury. 
“Why did he have to die?” 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 39 



Marion’s lips trembled and she turned 
away. Court, after a brief hesitation, 
replaced the lead-glass helmet and went 
into the wing. He could, as a matter of 
routine, take samples of Locicault’s 
blood and skin, though he knew that 
would do little good. 

Court opened the door of Locicault’s 
room and stopped abruptly, catching his 
breath. The blood drained from his 
cheeks. He reached out almost blindly. 

“Sammy!” he whispered. “Oh, my 
God, you fool!” 

The old man stood motionless beside 
the bed. In the dimness his face could 
not be seen. His scant white hair was 
as pale as silver. 

“Hello, Stevie,” he said gently. “Don’t 
go off the handle, now. After all. I’m 
not so young any more, and you needed 
a case of this plague to experiment on. 
If it’s as contagious as you say, I guess 
I sure enough got it by now.” 

“Sammy,” Court w^hispered through 
dry lips. “Why-—” He could not go on. 

“Why?” The old man shrugged. “I 
dunno. I told you about that plague 
down South, with women and kids dying 
like flies. I know what it’s like. If I 
can help you save women and kids, 
Stevie, I figure I’ve done a pretty good 
job. So it’s up to you now, boy. It’s 
up to you.” 

VIII 

A RDATH was worried. As he sat 
immersed in thought, within the labora- 
tory of the golden ship, he felt that he 
was little nearer to his goal. The bar- 
baric hordes that overran Earth in this 
new era promised little. Only in the far 
Eastern lands did the flame of civiliza- 
tion burn. 

But would Ardath find a super-men- 
tality there? Would there be one he 
could take with him to a future age, to 
find a suitable mate? Or must he go on 
once more? 

There was another matter, too. Nei- 
ther Jansaiya nor Thordred had proved 
as intelligent as he had expected. At 



times Thordred was almost obtuse, de- 
spite his eagerness to learn new things. 
A flash of suspicion crossed Ardath’s 
mind. Perhaps Thordred was pretending 
stupidity. 

But why should he? Ardath, unused 
to guile and deceit, found the question 
difficult. He had saved Thordred’s life, 
but humans were completely alien to 
Ardath. He had come from Kyria, a 
planet far across the Universe. He did 
not realize that humans sometimes mis- 
trust and hate those greater than them- 
selves, fearing power which, though 
benevolent, can also be used for evil. Be- 
sides, he knew that Thordred was am- 
bitious, for the giant Earthman had 
conspired to win Zana’s throne. 

Ardath rose from his seat and pressed 
a lever. The veil of flickering light that 
barred the doorway died. He stepped 
across the threshold, and once more the 
barrier flamed with shimmering dead- 
liness. He stood watching Thordred 
and Jansaiya as they sat near a vision 
screen, intent on the scene pictured 
there. 

Thordred turned his vulture face, 
sensing Ardath’s presence. “There is 
nothing new. Master.” 

Ardath smiled somewhat sadly. 

“How often must I tell you not to 
call me master? Because I have more 
knowledge than you, Thordred, does not 
mean that you are my slave. This eter- 
nal desire of Earthmen for enslave- 
ment — ” 

He shrugged bewilderedly and his 
thoughts went back to his home planet, 
Kyria, long since shattered into cosmic 
dust. Often he had dreamed of that 
world, which he had seen only on vision 
screen. Always he had awakened to this 
barbarous planet where men hated and 
fought and died for silly causes. Truly 
the road of the ages was long. 

Yet he knew there would be an end. 
Even here, in this Eastern land, the 
Kyrian had found a clue. 

“Thordred,” he said slowly,' “and you, 
too, Jansaiya — I must leave you for a 
while.” 



40 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Intent on his thoughts, Ardath did not 
notice the quick glow that brightened 
the eyes of the others. 

“There is a man here I must know, 
and a mystery I must solve,” he con- 
tinued. “Barbarous hordes have over- 
run this country, huge hairy giants from 
the North. They are little more than 
beasts, but at their head is a chieftain 
called Dro-Ghir. He puzzles me. His acts 
are wise. His brain seems highly de- 
veloped, yet he is filled with the violent 
emotions of a savage. This is a para- 
dox.” 

Jansaiya’s lovely eyes were narrowed. 

“You must leave us, you said?” 

Ardath nodded. “Remain in the ship 
till I return. There is plenty of food, 
and no danger can touch you. I have 
only one warning — do not attempt to 
enter the laboratory.” He smiled as a 
thought came to him. “Though you know 
nothing of the apparatus there, yet you 
might harm yourselves.” 

“We will obey,” Thordred grunted, 
his harsh face immobile. 

Quickly Ardath made his prepara- 
tions. As he opened the port, he turned. 
His gaze dwelt on Thordred, and there 
was a curiously mocking light in it. 

“Farewell, for a time. I shall rejoin 
you soon.” 

He stepped out and was gone. 

The girl made a quick movement, but 
Thordred lifted his huge hand in warn- 
ing. 

“Wait!” he whispered. 

^HEY waited, while the minutes 
dragged past. At last Thordred arose 
and went to the laboratory door. He 
fumbled over the wall, and abruptly the 
flickering veil of light died. The giant’s 
face twisted in a contemptuous grin. 

“Ardath is a fool,” he rumbled. “Else 
he would never have left his laboratory 
unguarded, even though he does not 
realize that I know the secret of his 
brain.” 

“But do you?” Jansaiya asked. She 
stood behind the giant, peering over his 
shoulder into the laboratory. “You know 



nothing of his thoughts since you drew 
the knowledge from his mind, and that 
was ages ago.” 

“I know enough!” Thordred retorted, 
eyeing the apparatus wolfishly. 
“Enough to handle his weapons, once I 
get my hands on them. We shall follow 
Ardath now and slay him. Then this new 
world will be ready for conquests.” 

“I am afraid,” the girl complained. 
“Do not try to kill Ardath. Sometimes I 
see that in his eyes which makes me 
tremble. He is not Earth-born. Let us 
flee, instead. 

“While he lives, we are not safe,” 
Thordred growled. “Come!” 

He sprang across the threshold — and 
was flung back! A wall of flaming blue 
light reared viciously before him. 
Crackling, humming, blazing with azure 
fury, the strange veil rippled weirdly. 
Sick with amazement and baffled rage, 
Thordred drew back, a stinging pain in 
his arm and his side. Jansaiya cried out 
and fled into a corner. 

“He — he watches us!” the girl whim- 
pered. “I did not think so, but now 1 
know he is a demon!” 

Thordred was ashly-gray under his 
hairy brown skin. His jaw muscles 
bunched. Like a beast he crouched, great 
hands shaking, as he glared at the omin- 
ous portal. 

“Quiet ! He does not watch. Ardath is 
clever, that is all.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“One lock on a door is good, but two 
are better. Ardath had put two locks on 
this one.” Thordred growled deep in his 
throat. “Does he suspect me? If he 
does — ” He shook his shaggy head. “No, 
it is a precaution anyone might take. 
Let me see.” 

Thordred approached and gingerly 
tested the blue wall of light. It was as 
solid and resistant as metal. 

“It is a new thing. I know many of 
Ardath’s secrets, though not this one. 
Perhaps I can learn how to destroy this 
barrier before he returns.” 

Jansaiya began trembling with a new 
fear. 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 41 



“If you do not, he may destroy us. 
Hurry, Thordred!” 

“There is no need for haste. Let me 
see — ” 

The giant began testing the wall be- 
side the door. Under his beetling brows, 
the amber cat’s-eyes glowed as he 
worked. Presently sweat began to trickle 
down the swai'thy face and run into the 
black beard. Could he find the secret of 
the barrier of light before Ardath re- 
turned ? 

Meanwhile, Ardath walked swiftly 
thi’ough the forest, his thoughts busy. 
The Kyrian had already forgotten Thor- 
dred and Jansaiya. He was pondering 
the mystery of the savage chief, Dro- 
Ghir, whose actions were those of a 
genius, but who certainly did not re- 
semble one in any way. 

In a far later age, Genghis Khan and 
Attila the Hun would ravage the Earth 
as Dro-Ghir did now. Centuries later, 
the walled cities of China would again 
fall victim to the invader, as they had 
fallen before Dro-Ghir. Out of the 
Northern steppes the hordes of this 
scourge had come, huge hairy men on 
horseback. Their villages were crude 
collections of dome-shaped huts — yurts, 
they were called. 

Eastward the ravagers had swept, 
and down the bleak coasts into Oriental 
lands. Westward they had been halted, 
for a time, by the vast mountain range 
that towered to the skies. In the south 
they had swarmed into a land of lush 
green jungle and carved stone temples, 
where men worshiped Siva and Kali the 
Many-armed. 

Like an avalanche, the hoofs of the in- 
vaders thundered unimpeded across 
Earth. 

“Slay” they shouted. 

Their curved swords glittered. Their 
horse-tail standards shook in the chill 
winds that followed them from the 
north. Their spears drank deep, lifted, 
dripping red! Great beast-faced giants 
who rode like centaurs and fought like 
devils, they bathed the East in rivers 
of blood. 



S LAY ! Show no mercy. Prisoners mut- 
ter and revolt, therefore take no 
prisoners. Only slay! 

Over these barbarians Dro-Ghir 
ruled. 

Ardath’s vision screen had shown 
him that Dro-Ghir camped with a group 
of his men, not far away. But night had 
fallen before he reached the outposts 
and was accosted by a wary sentry. 

In the moonlight, the guard’s face 
was like that of a gargoyle. He lifted Ms 
spear — and held it rigid as Ardath’s 
gaze met and locked with his. A silent 
conflict flared without words or actions 
between the two men. 

As the stronger will mastered, the 
sentry turned and led the Kyrian into 
the midst of a group of goat-skin tents. 
Before the largest he paused. A few 
soldiers were sitting here and there by 
their fires. 'They looked up curiously, 
but none offered to interfere. 

The sentry lifted the tent flap and 
Ardath entered. He felt an involuntary 
tension as he faced Dro-Ghir. 

A few small lamps of pottery, with 
wicks protruding from reeking animal 
oil, cast a flickering yellowish gleam on 
the tent walls. There were some beast 
skins scattered around haphazardly, but 
nothing more. A man reclined at length 
on a greasy fur, and he looked up sharp- 
ly as the intruder entered. 

Dro-Ghir was a giant, as huge as 
Thordred. He wore nothing but a loose 
robe, which left his shaggy breast bare. 
His thick black beard was shiny with 
oil. His long, thick mustache had been 
twisted into two short braids and tied 
with golden wire. A fur cap covered his 
head. His face was that of a blindly 
ferocious beast. The lov/ brow slanted 
back. The thick lips revealed yellow, 
broken tusks. In the shallow eyes was 
little sign of intelligence. 

Ardath frowned in wonder. Was this 
the genius he sought? 

Dro-Ghir surged up in one swift mo- 
tion. His hand brought out a short 
throwing-spear, which he leveled at 
Ardath. 



42 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“Li Yang” he roared. “Come here!” 

Ardath had already taken pains to 
learn the language of the barbarian 
hordes. 

“I mean no harm,” he began. “I mere- 
ly—” 

“Peace, Lord,” a new voice broke in. 
“He comes unarmed. Wait!” 

Someone was crouching in the shad- 
ows. Ardath peered intently into the 
darkness. He saw a gross lump of a 
man, an absurdly fat Oriental who sat 
cross-legged in the gloom. Sharp black 
eyes, almost hidden in the sagging pads 
of the round bland face, stared back at 
Ardath. The red lips were childlike, and 
the domelike skull was bald and shining. 
Li Yang wore a loose robe, girt about 
his bulging waist by a golden cord. 

Dro-Ghir had also swiveled to peer 
at the Oriental. 

“Hear his words,” Li Yang counseled, 
and picked up a lutelike instrument at 
his side. Idly he strummed the strings as 
he gave his advice. “There is no harm 
in words.” 

But Dro-Ghir did not release his grip 
on the spear. He stood with legs wide 
apart, watching Ardath. 

“Well?” he demanded. 

The Kyrian spread his hand in ap- 
peal. 

“I come in peace.” 

“How did you get through the lines?” 

“That does not matter. I have a mes- 
sage for you.” 

Dro-Ghir growled a savage threat 
deep in his throat. 

“Let him speak, Lord,” Li Yang whis- 
pered. 

“Then speak — but swiftly!” 

Swiftly Ardath told his story. He was 
still puzzled, and he grew more be- 
wildered as he searched the dull,- feroci- 
ous eyes of the chieftain. No under- 
standing woke in them, yet Ardath 
plunged on, explaining his purpose, 
asking Dro-Ghir to come with him into 
time. 

Finally he finished. There was tense 
silence as the lamps sputtered and flick- 
ered eerily. At last the soft twang of 



the lute murmured vaguely. 

“What is your answer?” Ardath 
asked. 

Dro-Ghir tugged at his beard, while 
his hand was still clenched about the 
spear. Abruptly the Oriental broke in. 

“Lord, I think this foreigner has 
strange powers. It would be well to make 
him welcome.” 

'^HE ORIENTAL heaved to his feet 
from the furs, a flabby behemoth, 
and the pudgy hand made a swift mo- 
tion to Dro-Ghir. The chieftain hesi- 
tated. Then his face broke into a wolfish 
grin. 

“Good, We are not enemies, you and I. 
Break bread with me.” 

Li Yang shuffled ponderously for- 
ward, thrust a cake of mealy, unleav- 
ened bread into Dro-Ghir’s paw. The 
chieftain broke the cake into halves and 
handed Ardath one, stuffing the other 
into his capacious mouth. The crumbs 
that fell were caught in his filthy beard. 

Warily the Kyrian ate. Something 
was amiss here, though what it was, he 
did not know. 

“You will come with me?” he asked. 
“I am tired of using force. If you refuse, 
I shall merely leave you and continue 
my search. ” 

“Drink!” Dro-Ghir roared. 

He seized a hollowed horn from Li 
Yang and thrust it at Ardath. The 
Oriental gave Dro-Ghir another cup. 
The wine was hotly spiced and steaming. 

“In friendship — drink!” 

The barbarian chief lifted the horn to 
his lips and drained it. Ardath followed 
his example. Slowly he lowered the cup. 

Li Yang was back in his corner, 
strumming at the lute. His voice rose in 
a monotonous Oriental song; 

All men see the petals of the rose drift 

down. 

The jasmine fades, the lotus passes — 

Dro-Ghir stood motionless. Abruptly 
his huge hand tightened on the drink- 
ing-horn, and it shattered. 

His hair^f ringed mouth gaped open 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 43 



in agony. Only a choking snarl rasped 
out. 

But no man sees his own doom in the 

falling of the rose. 

The chieftain’s body arched back. He 
clawed at his throat, his contorted face 
blindly upturned. Then he crashed 
down, as a tree falls,- and lay silent on a 
dirty bear fur. A single shudder shook 
the gross form, before Dro-Ghir was 
utterly still. 

Ardath caught his breath. 

His glance probed the Oriental’s 
sharp black eyes as Li Yang stood up 
hurriedly. 

“We must go before Dro-Ghir’s body 
'is found. Most of the men are in a 
drunken stupor, as always after a vic- 
tory. Hurry!” 

“Wait,” Ardath protested. “I do not 
understand.” 

The Oriental’s bland face was im- 
mobile, but his black eyes twinkled with 
malicious amusement. 

“Dro-Ghir signaled me to give you the 
poisoned cup. I gave him the deadly 
wine, instead. Listen, Ardath — that is 
your name, I think. Your words were 
not for this barbarian chief. Ever since 
Dro-Ghir captured me, years ago, I have 
served him with my wisdom. He spared 
me because I gave him good counsel.” 

Ardath’s eyes widened, startled by 
the simple explanation. Li Yang had 
been the power behind Dro-Ghir’s 
throne. 

The Oriental was the genius who had 
inspired the invader! 

“I am tired of being a slave,” said Li 
Yang frankly. “Eventually Dro-Ghir 
would have doubted my wisdom, and 
would have slain me. Also, I do not like 
this savage world. Let me go with you, 
Ardath, into the future”— he glanced 
at the grease-stained furs — “where, at 
least, there may be more comfortable 
couches.” 

Involuntarily Ardath’s solemn face 
relaxed in a gentle smile. He could not 
help liking this blandly frank Oriental, 



who played soft music with one hand 
while he administered poison with the 
other. 

“Very well,” he agreed. “Let us go. 
What of the guards ? Can we pass 
through their lines?” 

“Unless Dro-Ghir’s body is discov- 
ered. In that case, not even I will be 
above suspicion, so we must hurry.” 

The two slipped quietly from the tent 
and under a swollen red moon they 
walked through the encampent. Only 
when the fires had grown dim behind 
them did they breathe freely once more. 

T I YANG pointed up to the smoke 
^ from the camp that drifted across 
Earth’s satellite. 

“Barbarian flames darken_the Moon- 
lantern,” he said softly. “In future ages, 
the smoke may have drifted away. Not 
for many centuries, though, I think.” 

Ardath did not answer, for he was 
concentrating on the brain of the man 
who walked beside him. Presently he 
sighed with an emotion that was close 
to despair. 

His quest was not over. Li Yang was 
wise, far ahead of his time in intel- 
ligence, but he was not the super-being 
Ardath sought. The search must still go 
on through the eons. But Li Yang would 
be a good companion to have, despite 
his shortcomings. 

After a while, they came in sight of 
the ship. 

The Oriental’s lips quivered, though 
his face remained immobile. 

“The chariot actually flies?” he asked 
in awe. “It is truly wonderful, like the 
fabled dragon of Sti-Shan.” 

On the threshold of the golden ship 
Ardath paused a moment. His gaze 
went to the blue curtain that flickered 
across the laboratory door. Then he 
looked sharply at Thordred and Jan- 
saiya, who were rising from their 
couches. 

Jansaiya’s elfin features betrayed 
nothing, though there was a hint of fear 
in the sea-green eyes. Thordred’s beard 
bristled with apparent indignation. 



44 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“It is time you returned !” he growled. 
“Look!” He pointed toward the labora- 
tory. Silently Ardath entered, Li Yang 
at his heels. Ignoring their apparent in- 
terest in the Oriental, he lifted his brows 
in a question. 

“Enemies,” Thordred grunted, his 
yellow eyes angry. “They came from the 
forest. I — ” he looked away involuntarily 
— “I opened the door, which was wrong, 
I admit. But I was curious.” 

“Go on,” Ardath ordered unemotion- 
ally. 

“Well, the babarians saw us. They 
came toward the ship, yelling and hurl- 
ing spears. I shut the port and barred 
it, but they hammered so hard on the 
metal I feared they’d break through.” 
“No spear can pierce the hull,” 
Ardath replied quietly. 

“Jansaiya was frightened, and I was 
weaponless. I thought I could find a 
weapon in your laboratory. But when I 
tried to enter — ” He made a quick, an- 
gry gesture toward the threshold. “You 
do not trust us, I see.” 

“You are wrong.” Ardath smiled sud- 
denly. “I take precautions against pos- 
sible enemies, but you are not my enemy, 
Thordred. The barbarians fled?” 

“They gave up at last,” Thordred 
blurted hurriedly. “But if they had bro- 
ken in, we would have been slaughtered 
, like trapped beasts.” 

Ardath shrugged indifferently. 

“It should be forgotten. We have a 
new companion. And soon we must sleep 
again for centuries.” 

Thordred said nothing. His eyes were 
veiled, but slow rage mounted within 
him. Again he had failed. Not complete- 
ly, though. He had not betrayed himself, 
and as yet Ardath suspected nothing. 

They must sleep again, yet they would 
awaken. 

Thordred’s fist clenched. The next 
time, he would not fail! 

IX 

M HE SCIENTIST, Stephen Court, 
was in his Wisconsin laboratory-home. 



With Marion and Sammy, he had re- 
turned from Canada and plunged im- 
mediately into a desperate succession of 
experiments. Slowly, painfully, he made 
progress. 

“We have two goals,” he told Marion, 
his dark eyes gleaming behind lids that 
were -red from lack of sleep. “First — ” 
“First you’ve got to eat something,” 
the girl interrupted. 

She brought a tray to Court’s desk 
and set it down. Silently he nodded his 
thanks. Wolfing a sandwich without 
tasting it, he kept on talking. 

“Remember what I told you about see- 
ing a golden space ship on an orbit 
around the Earth? I’ve been checking 
that. I have a hunch there’s some clue 
connected with that ship.” 

“How do you figure that out?” 

Marion perched on a corner of the 
desk, her trim legs swinging under the 
lab smock she wore. 

“The ship was obviously created by 
some civilization far in advance of ours. 
That means their science was also in 
advance of today’s. Perhaps in that 
vessel I can find some weapon, some 
method unknown to modern science, 
that will help me fight the plague. The 
very least it can do is set me on the 
right track.” 

Marion patted her dark hair into 
place, though she boasted that she had 
lost all the silly feminine habits. 

“How can you reach the ship? Space 
travel is impossible.” 

Court smiled. “It was impossible. 
Rockets are useless as yet, because the 
fuel problem’s insurmountable. Balloons 
aren’t practical. But there is a way of 
overcoming gravitation.” 

“Good Lord!” The girl slid down from 
the desk and stood staring. “You don’t 
mean — ” 

“Hold on. I haven’t done anything 
yet, except make some spectroscopic 
analyses. Marion, that space ship isn’t 
made of gold! It’s a yellow metal, an 
unknown alloy. I haven’t finished an- 
alyzing it, but I know there’s mag- 
nesium there, tungsten, and other ele- 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 45 



ments. The virtue of that alloy is that, 
properly magnetized, it becomes resis- 
tant to gravitation.” 

“How?” she asked, amazed. 

Court tapped idly on the tray as he 
replied. 

“I’m just theorizing, though I feel 
pretty certain. Earth is a gigantic mag- 
net. You know that. Well, like poles 
repel, opposite poles attract. If we-could 
set up a magnetic foi'ce absolutely iden- 
tical to Earth’s, we could utilize that 
principle. So far it hasn’t been done, 
except by the unknowns who built that 
golden ship. If I can duplicate the alloy 
— which I think I can do — and shoot the 
right sort of energy into it, we’ll have a 
space ship.” 

“Whew!” Marion breathed, and she 
blinked. “Then you’ll go out after — ” 

“The golden vessel? Yes. It may be a 
wild goose chase, for all I know, but the 
chance is worth taking. I may find 
scientific ' knowledge that will be just 
what I need.” 

The girl turned away with such haste 
that Court looked at her sharply. 

“What is it?” he demanded. 

She shook her head speechlessly. 
Court got up swiftly and swung her 
around to face him. There were tears in 
her lovely brown eyes. 

“Tell me what it is!” he commanded. 
“What’s wrong?” 

She bit her lip. “You’ll think I’m 
foolish.” 

“I said, tell me what it is!” 

“I’m just superstitious,” Marion burst 



out. “It isn’t scientific at all. But for a 
minute I had the queerest feeling 
that — ” 

“Well?” he said impatiently, frown- 
ing and gripping her shoulders. 

“That there’s danger in that ship,” 
she whispered. “Danger to you, Stephen. 
As though that golden ship had been 
waiting for ages, perhaps, just for the 
moment when you’d enter it.” 

He grinned ironically and sat down 
again. Gulping milk, he watched Marion 
laughingly over the rim of the glass. 

“A sort of ancient rendezvous,” he 
teased. “You’re under a nervous tension, 
Marion. We all are.” He admitted that, 
sobering. “And there’s a reason enough. 
I’m afraid.” 

They fell painfully silent. Both were 
thinking of the man who lay alone in a 
lead-plated room upstairs. Sammy was 
already being ravaged by the frightful 
plague from outer space. Court got up, 
squaring his shoulders with decision. 

"He didn’t back down, you know, and 
I certainly won’t run from a shadow. 
Get my suit, Marion. It’s time to check 
up on Sammy again.” 

ERVOUSLY she helped Court don 
the armor. 

“There’s something going on at the 
village,” she said. “Not a — a shadow, 
either. Since the plague has hit the 
newspapers, the villager's are fright- 
ened.” 

“Why?” Court asked, slipping on his 

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46 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



gloves. “There’s been only one case in 
this country as yet, and that was in 
Georgia. Europe, Africa, China? Sure. 
But—” 

“Somebody’s been talking. They know 
about Sammy. They claim that you’re 
exposing the whole village to deadly 
danger by keeping Sammy here.” 

“Damned idiots!” He made an im- 
patient gesture with his lead-gauntleted 
hand. “Sammy’s completely isolated. 
There’s no danger at all.” 

“They’re not scientists,” she argued. 
“Just ordinary people, most of them 
fairly uneducated. But they’ve got fami- 
lies, and — well, I’m afraid.” 

“The police can’t touch me.” 

“It’s not that.” Marion bit her lip and 
paused. Then she shrugged. “It doesn’t 
matter, I suppose. But I hope nothing 
happens.” 

“Nothing will,” he assured her. 

He went out, hurrying through a long 
corridor to a lead-plated door. When he 
knocked, there was no response. Making 
sure there were no gaps in his armor. 
Court entered the experimental room. 

It was large, yet amazingly cluttered 
with apparatus. The lead walls dully re- 
flected the dim light. On white-topped 
tables by the hospital bed lay gages, 
indicators, and enigmatic-looking de- 
vices. 

The figure on the bed was completely 
unrecognizable. The metamorphosis had 
come so swiftly that Sammy was hor- 
ribly inhuman in appearance. His skin 
emitted a silvery radiance. His face was 
a mere bag of loosely wrinkled skin, 
hanging repulsively about the jutting 
nose. His mouth was invisible below 
eyes that were gleaming but blind. 

Court fought down the sick horror 
that tore at his stomach. He dared not 
give way to sentiment, nor even admit 
its existence. Before him was a test case, 
a laboratory subject. That was all. He 
must forget that he had ever known the 
old man, that the faithful regenerated 
tramp had been his only friendj his 
entire family. 

“Hello, Sammy,” he said in a voice 



that would not lose its choked quality. 
“How do you feel?” 

There was no motion perceptible in 
the shrunken body on the bed. But a 
remarkably clear voice murmured a 
reply. 

“Hello, Stevie.” ^ 

“Any change?” 

“None. I’m just hungry.” 

Coui't took a rabbit from a lead-lined 
box beside the bed, and placed it geiitly 
in the malformed talons that once had 
been Sammy’s hand. Instantly there was 
a change. The small beast kicked con- 
vulsively and was still. The glow em- 
anating from Sammy’s skin brightened 
slightly. 

“That better?” 

“Yes. Thanks, Stevie.” 

Court drew up a chair and clumsily 
sat down in it. Through the lead in- 
filtrated goggles, his eyes probed. With 
gloved fingers he made adjustments on 
the apparatus, and carefully checked 
the readings on certain gages. 

“The change is progressive,” he mut- 
tered under his breath. 

Drawing a microscope toward him, 
he took a sample of the patient’s skin 
cells and prepared a slide. 

“Yes, entropy . . . Incredible! I still 
can’t understand — ” 

“What is it, Steve?” Sammy asked 
weakly. 

“Nothing new. But I’ll -find a cure 
yet. You can depend on me, Sammy.” 
The hideous folds of wrinkles 
twitched in a ghastly semblance of 
amusement. 

“Your cure won’t help me. I’m hungry 
again.” 

Court gave the old man another rab- 
bit. Then he took pencil and paoer, set a 
stop-watch on the table, and began the 
usual word association test. Though 
simple, it had proved surprisingly effec- 
tive in checking on the patient’s mental 
metamorphosis. 

But now Court was due for a sur- 
prise. The test proceeded normally. 
Sammy responded without much hesita- 
tion. though over two words— “man” 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 47 



and “life” — he paused perceptibly. Then 
Court said, “Food,” and immediately 
Sammy responded, “Human.” 

Court made a great effort to control 
himself. He read the next word, and the 
next, but he did not even hear Sammy’s 
responses. He was battling down the 
gorge that rose in his throat, yet this 
should have been expected. Sammy was 
absorbing life-energy from living be- 
ings, and the human brain contained 
the highest form of such energy. But 
what would be the result ? 

S AMMY’S replies lagged as he seemed 
to grow weaker. Court left him at 
last, with a few encouraging words. 
But when he hurried out, he was feeling- 
worried and depressed. 

It was past sunset, and he switched 
on the light in his lab. Removing the 
lead armor, he sat down to think mat- 
ters over. Sammy was no longer entirely 
human, for the change was progressing 
rapidly. His basal metabolism was tre- 
mendously increased. As Court had dis- 
covered, the very matter of his body was 
changed. 

“Entropy,” he whispered, nervously 
folding and unfolding his hands. “That’s 
the answer, of course. But what it 
’ means — ” 

Entropy, the rate of the universe’s 
running down. A human body is com- 
posed of atoms and electrons, like a 
universe. If the entropic value of a life 
organism is increased, what is the re- 
sult ? ‘ 

Court was angry with himself be- 
cause he did not know. He should have 
been grateful for not being able to see 
the future. 

“Sammy’s changing into another 
form of life, that’s certain. And he ab- 
sorbs energy directly through contact. 
I must take more precautions. He may 
be dangerous later.” 

Abruptly there was an interruption. 
The door flew open, and Marion burst 
in. Her brown hair was in disorder 
under her white cap. 

“Stephen!” she cried through pallid 



lips. “There are men coming up the 
road !” 

“What about it?” he asked, without 
interest. 

“From the village. With torches. I’m 
afraid — ” 

“Those damned fools!” he snapped 
angrily. “Rouse out the men. Give them 
rifles. Tell them to spread through the 
house and keep its front covered from 
inside. When I give the word, they can 
fire.” 

Marion stared at him in horror. 

“You’d — murder those men?” 

Court’s eyes were icy as he returned 
her stricken gaze. 

“Why not? They’re afraid I have a 
contagious case here. But they’re afraid 
for their own precious skins. They’d be 
willing to burn down the house and kill 
Sammy. Well, it’s lucky I’ve taken pre- 
cautions. Do what I say!” 

His tone sent Marion racing out. 

Growling an oath. Court went to the 
front door. He opened it and stepped 
out on the front porch. A bright moon 
revealed the scene. Before him the road 
sloped steeply down to the village, with 
a few trees that were blots of shadow 
on either side. 

Torches flamed along the road. Twen- 
ty-five or thirty men — possibly more — 
were advancing in ominous silence. 

Court put his back against the door 
and waited. The ignorant fools ! He was 
trying to save their lives. 

Quickly the mob formed a crescent 
about the porch. They were mostly vil- 
lagers and farmers. Under other cir- 
cumstances, they would have dreamed 
and worked away their lives without 
ever embarking on such a hazardous 
venture as this. But now their work- 
worn faces were grim, and their sharp 
eyes narrowed with deadly purpose. 

Court unfolded his arms. Though he 
held no weapon, the mob drew back 
slightly. Then one man, a lean, grizzle- 
haired oldster in overalls, stepped for- 
ward. 

“What do you want?” Court asked 
quietly. 



FANTAST5C STORY MAGAZINE 



The old man scowled. 

“We want some questions answered, 
Mr. Court. Are you harborin’ a case of 
the Plague?” 

“Yes.” 

The word was flatly emotionless, yet 
a mutter went up from the crowd. 

“I s’pose you know that’s contagious. 
There can’t nothin' stop it.” 

“There is no danger of contagion,” 
Court replied. “I have taken care of 
that.” He gestured at the flickering 
flames of the torches. “What do you 
wish to do — kill my patient?” 

“Nope,” the spokesman stated. “We 
want you to send him away from here, 
to a hospital. The papers say there ain’t 
no way of stopping the Plague. I got 
two kids myself, Mr. Court. The rest of 
us, we’re family men. How’d you like it 
if—” 

“I tell you, there’s no danger,” Court 
snapped. His nerves, already tense with 
overwork and sleeplessness, were frayed 
beyond endurance. “Get out, all of you, 
or you’ll regret it!” 

A low ominous roar went up from 
the mob. They surged forward, 
paused only when Court lifted his hand. 

“Wait! I have a dozen men in the 
house, stationed at the windows, with 
guns aimed at you right now. Subma- 
chine-guns, some of them, and rifles. We 
can protect ourselves from lynch law.” 
The crowd wavered uncertainly. The 
oldster yelled a shrill protest. “We ain’t 
lynchers, Mr. Court. We’re just aimin’ 
to protect our folks. We got a car down 
the road a bit, and we aim to take your 
Plague victim to a hospital.” 

Court laughed ironically. 

“You poor idiot! You just said the 
Plague is contagious.” 

“Sure it is. But we got rubber gloves, 
and cotton pads soaked in antiseptic 
to tie over our mouths and we’ll wash in 
carbolic afterward. We just don’t want 
our folks to run any risks.” 

“Rubber gloves!” Court snorted. 
“Only thick lead can protect you from 
the Plague. If you won’t leave instantly, 



we’ll use guns to convince you. And I 
warn you, I won’t hesitate to do that if 
it’s necessary.” 

“He ain’t bluffing,” one of the mob 
said nervously. “I saw a muzzle up there 
in. that winder.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” the spokes- 
man said. “We’re cornin’ in, Mr. Court, 
unless you bring the man out to us.” 

As the crowd surged forward. Court 
raised his pistol and took steady aim 
at the leader. 

“You set foot on the first step,” he 
gritted, “and I’ll put a bullet through 
your head.” 

The old man walked slowly, quietly, 
up the steps. Behind him came the 
others. Court’s finger tightened on the 
trigger, yet he did not fire. 

His face grew terrible at the conflict 
that raged within him. Stephen Court, 
man of ice and iron, tom by puerile 
emotion? Shoot! That was the logical 
thing to do. Shoot, to save Sammy, to 
save the experiment from these ignor- 
ant fools. 

But the mob did not want to kill. 
Court knew they were honest, hard- 
working men, who loved their families 
and wanted to protect them from dan- 
ger. 

The nearest was only a few steps 
from him. But Court did not fire, nor 
give the word that would have brought 
a searing blast from the upper windows. 
His lips twisted in agonized indecision. 

From within the house came a 
scream. The door flung open and Marion 
Barton fled out, her face chalk-white. 

“Stephen! Quick!” 

Court whirled, ignoring the besiegers. 

“What is it?” 

“Sammy came into the lab! He 
was — ” 

A startled gasp came from the old 
man. He drew back, staring. A rippling 
wave of fear shook the crowd that had 
shuffled to the porch. With one arm 
around Marion, Court dragged her back. 
Just then, something came out of the 
door. 

He knew it was Sammy. But the 



A MLLION YEARS TO CONQUER 49 



metamorphosis had been incredibly ac- 
celerated. Sammy was not even as hu- 
man as he had been half an hour before. 

His body could not be seen. A white 
shadow, with flickering nimbus edges, 
paused on the threshold. The pallid glow 
emanating from Sammy’s flesh had be- 
come so brilliant that its lambent light 
entirely hid the frightful body. 

Staring at him was like looking into 
the heart of an electric light bulb, 
though the illumination was not strong 
enough to be blinding. 

A shining, roughly man-shaped shad- 
ow, it stood on the threshold. And it 
whispered ! A vague, wordless, susurrus 
murmured out. Like the hum emitted 
by some electric contrivance, it was 
enigmatic and unhuman. 

The shadow lurched forward. Its 
shimmering arms went around the old 
man in overalls. The old fellow shrieked 
as though the soul had been wrenched 
from his body. Then he fell, his body 
oddly shrunken, pale and lifeless. 

Panic struck the mob. In all direc- 
tions the men fled back. The thing 
that had been Sammy seemed to glide 
down the steps in pursuit. 

“Oh, my God!” Court whispered. His 
face was drawn with pain as he slowly 
took aim with his pistol. “Sammy — ” 

He did not finish. The shot snarled 
out in the night. 

The glowing bulk was unharmed. 
With his breath catching in his throat. 
Court pumped bullet after bullet at it. 
It stumbled down the lawn, while the 
mob vanished along the slope. 

“No use!” Court gritted between his 
teeth. “It absorbs every kind of energy, 
including kinetic.” 

He let out a shout. Glancing up, he 
pointed. From the windows above him 
came a burst of sound. Submachine- 
guns and rifles rattled lethally, concen- 
trating their fire on the shining horror 
that moved into the night. 

It vanished behind a tree and was 
gone. Marion gripped Court’s arm. 

“Poor Sammy! Can’t we go after 
him?” 



“That isn’t Sammy,” Court said grim- 
ly. “Not now. It — it’s a horror, an 
alien thing out of another Universe, 
perhaps. Yes, I’m going after it, Mari- 
on, but not till I’ve put on my lead suit. 
I’m not sure I can capture it, even 
then.” He blew across the smoking muz- 
zle of his gun. “A creature whose touch, 
means instant death is loose in the coun- 
tryside. And I don’t even know if it 
can be killed !” 

X 

SciPIO AGPJCOLA AFRICANUS 
sat in a dungeon beneath the Circus 
arena. Through a barred grating, he 
watched one gladiator disembowel an- 
other. The stroke, he thought, was clean 
and good, for the men from Gaul were 
like wolves, dark, feral and quick. Scipio 
rather hoped he would be matched 
against them, rather than against lions 
or an elephant. There was something 
about the feel of steel matched against 
your own sword that put heart into a 
man. 

An armored guard, coming along the 
corridor, pushed open the door of Sci- 
pio’s cell. His hawk face peered in. 

“Your turn soon,” he said. 

“Good,” replied Scipio, with a pleas- 
ant oath. “I grow tired of battling 
fleas.” 

The soldier chuckled as he bent to ad- 
just a greave. 

“By my Lares, you have courage ! Too 
bad your dream failed. I would not 
have objected to serving under such a 
man as you.” 

“I failed because none of my men had 
the courage of a rabbit.” Scipio spat in 
disgust. “Faith, we could have taken 
Carthage almost without bloodshed.” 

“Had your army not fled, leaving you 
to face the Imperial Guard alone!” The 
soldier shook his head, grinning wryly. 
“Nothing but trouble since you came to 
Africa, Scipio. It was bad enough with 
those damned Romans yelling that Car- 
thage must be destroyed, but at least 
they had not tried to destroy it. And 



50 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



what did you do?” 

Scipio’s eyes lighted. He was a huge, 
swarthy man, with the scarred face of a 
gargoyle. His nose had been broken so 
often that it sprawled shapelessly awry. 
Atop that monstrous face, the ringlets 
of short, curly black hair were incon- 
r>gruous. 

“What did I do?” the adventurer 
asked. “Faith, I tried to serve your king, 
but he would not let me.” 

The guard choked and spluttered his 
outrage. 

“Jupiter! You got drunk and dragged 
the king off to some low gambling hell. 
No wonder you had to flee to the moun- 
tains after that ! Then you got some in- 
sane idea about creating an independent 
city of your own. That might have 
worked, if you had gone far enough into 
the Nubian country with your followers. 
But you decided to take Carthage. Car- 
thage!” 

The soldier gave an infuriating roar 
of merriment. 

“Come within the reach of my man- 
acled hands,” Scipio invited pleasantly, 
“and I’ll tear off your head with con- 
siderable joy.” 

“Save that for the arena,” said the 
soldier, moving back slightly. “Tonight 
the cries will announce that the Car- 
thaginian Scipio is no more. Only you 
are not a man of Carthage, come to 
think of it. Are you?” 

“Why not?” The giant captive 
shrugged. “Rome is a melting pot. The 
blood of a dozen races mix in my veins. 
I am a citizen of Carthage now, at least 
for a while. By the way, how do I die?” 
“Elephant. They have a huge tusker 
they’ve driven musth with rage and 
hunger. You are to face him on equal 
terms, both of jmu unarmed.” He 
glanced cautiously over his shoulder. 
“I am to accompany you to the arena 
gate. And if you happen to seize my 
sword and take it with you — well, such 
things have happened.” 

Scipio nodded. “Too bad you’re not 
carrying a lance. However a sword 
must do. I can spill the behemoth’s 



blood before it tramples me. Thanks, 
soldier. If you let me escape now. I’ll 
make you a prince of the nation I intend 
to establish.” 

“Listen to the lunatic,” the guard 
said, with rapt admiration. “In chains, 
penniless, and offering to make me a 
prince! A prince of dreams, mayhap. 
Anyway, my vows are to Caesar, and 
not the Roman Imperator, either. So 
you must remain a captive.” 

The filthy straw rustled under Scipio 
as he shrugged. A death-cry drifted 
in from the arena, then the triumphant 
roar of some ferocious beast. 

“Well,” said the soldier, “your time 
has come.” 

“I wonder.” There was a curious look 
in Scipio’s deep-set eyes. “Lately I have 
had a queer feeling, as though the gods 
were watching me. Perhaps — ” 

He did not finish. More guards came, 
and the Carthaginian was unfettered 
and escoi'ted along an underground cor- 
ridor, Almost naked, his brawny body 
gleamed like mahogany in the sharp 
contrasts of light and shadow that fil- 
tered in through bars. Then the arena 
opened before them. Scipio was thrust 
forward. He saw at his side the friend- 
ly soldier, turned so that his sword-hilt 
was exposed. 

"WnTH a grin and quick movement, 
” Scipio clutched the weapon and 
whipped it out. Before the startled 
guards could move, he ran forward into 
the hot sands of the arena. The soles 
of his feet burned, then cooled as he 
halted in a patch of reddened sand. 

The blazing African sun flooded down 
in blinding whiteness. Scipio had only a 
vague impression of the crowd that filled 
the circus. He could pick out no in- 
dividuals. He felt as though one vast 
entity, surging, whispering, watching, 
surrounding him, and the head of the 
entity was the canopied box of the Lord 
of Carthage. 

Scipio shifted his grip on the sword. 
He brushed the curly hair from his eyes 
with one hand, and stood warily on the 



51 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 



balls of his feet. A musth elephant, eh? 
Well, no man could resist such an ene- 
my, yet a man could die fighting. 

“Alas for my dreams of empire,” the 
Carthaginian murmured with a crook- 
edly sardonic smile. “Faith, I might 
have ruled the world, given time. And 
now I must water the sand with my 
blood.” 

He turned to the Imperial box, lifting 
his hand in salute. The emperor nodded, 
expecting to hear the usual, “We who 
are about to die — ” of the gladiators. 

Scipio disappointed his host. At the 
top of his voice he howled the words 
that would most enrage the onlookers. 

“Carthage must be destroyed!” 

A wave of fury, a gasp of astonish- 
ment and rage rippled around the arena. 
The emperor made a quick, angry ges- 
ture. Grinning, Scipio turned to see a 
barred gate far across the sanded arena 
rise slowly. 

For a few heartbeats there was si- 
lence throughout the Circus. The blind- 
ing white heat was oppressive. Steam 
curled from the blood-stains on the 
sands. 

Then the musth elephant pounded to 
the gate. Huge, monstrous, a gray, 
walking vastness of animated dull sav- 
agery, he lurched through the gate and 
stood motionless, only his bloodshot lit- 
tle eyes alive with hatred. The trunk 
did not move, save for the tip, which 
swayed back and forth slightly. 

A shadow darkened the arena as a 
cloud crossed the sun, and then was 
gone. 

Scipio hefted the sword he held. It 
was a short-bladed weapon, useless un- 
less he could hurl it like a javelin. It 
was even too broad to pierce an ele- 
phant’s eye, the most vulnerable spot 
of the monster. Briefly Scipio thought 
of slicing off the elephant’s trunk as far 
up as he could reach. But that would 
still leave the tusks and mighty tree- 
trunk limbs that could squash a man 
into red pulp. 

“Well,” Scipio said with grim amuse- 
ment, “at least they had to use their big- 



gest elephant to kill me.” 

His gargoyle face twisted into a fear- 
less grin. In the glaring light, he re- 
sembled a teakwood statue, thewed like 
a colossus. 

The elephant came forward slowly, 
its red eyes questing viciously until it 
saw Scipio. It paused, and the trunk 
lifted, waving snakelike in the air. It 
snorted angrily. 

Again the shadow darkened the Sun, 
and this time it did not pass. 

The Carthaginian had no time to look 
up. He bent slightly from the knees, 
holding the sword high like a javelin. 

The elephant broke into a lumbering 
trot. Its speed increased. Like the Jug- 
gernaut, it bore down on him — 

Scipio had a flashing glimpse of the 
monster — flapping ears, murderously 
upheld trunk, gleaming tusks. The thun- 
der of its approach was growing louder, 
booming in his ears.* It loomed above 
him. 

From the skies sprang a thunderbolt ! 
Flaming with pale brilliance, the crack- 
ling beam raved dowm. It caught the 
behemoth in mid-strike, bathed it in 
shining radiance. And the monster van- 
ished I 

It was gone without a trace. The deep 
craters of its rush ended in the sand a 
few yards from where the shocked 
Scipio crouched. From the spectators 
rose a roar, terrified, unbelieving. 

A golden ball of enormous size 
plunged down into the arena. Lightly as 
a feather it grounded. A port in its hull 
sprang open. 

Scipio saw' a thin, pallid man, with 
the ascetic face of a Caesar. He was 
clad in odd garments and w^as beckoning 
urgently. Beyond him, Scipio glimpsed 
a fat Chinese whose round cheeks were 
quivering with excitement. 

A SPEAR flashed through the air, 
rang impotently against the golden 
hull. Almost paralyzed with amazement, 
Scipio ran forw'^ard, leaped into the ship. 
What this miracle might be, he did not 
know, but it seemed to provide a means 



52 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



of escape. Whether the pallid man was 
a god or a devil, at least he seemed 
friendly. More important, to remiain in 
the arena meant death. 

The port slammed shut behind Scipio. 
He bounded through the inner lock and 
stood wide-legged, staring around. The 
sword was still gripped in his hand. Past 
him the pallid man strode, and entered 
an inner chamber. A quiver of move- 
ment shook the ship as it lifted. The 
Oriental waddled into view and beamed 
at Scipio. 

“Relax, friend,” he said, lisping the 
unfamiliar tongue. “You speak Latin?” 

“Naturally,” Scipio stated. “All the 
world does. Are you a god? I doubt it, 
for only Bacchus and Silenus are obese, 
and their skins are not yellow.” 

The Oriental shook with laughter un- 
til he had to hold his heaving belly. 

“I have heard of this Bacchus. A new 
god, but he is a good one. Sit down.” 
He waved toward a couch. “My name 
is Li Yang. Do you wish food?” 

Scipio shook his head and sat gingerly 
on the soft cushions. 

“You called me friend?” he asked. 

“I might better have called you com- 
rade. Ardath saw the hidden possibilL 
ties in you, dragon-face. He read your 
mind while you slept. Ah, but you have 
dreams of empire, poor fool !” 

Li Yang shook his head, and his yel- 
low cheeks swung pendulously. 

“HI luck dogs me,” Scipio said lightly, 
grinning. “The gods hate me, so I wear 
no crown.” 

“Nor will you. You are not ruthless 
enough. You could carve out an empire 
for yourself, but you could not sit upon 
a throne. Under all thrones the snake 
coils. You are too honest to be a king, 
Scipio.” 

The Carthaginian had been about to 
answer, but he paused. His dark eyes 
widened, and a flame sprang into them. 
Ponderously Li Yang turned. 

Two figures stood on the threshold. 
One was Thordred, but Scipio had no 
eyes for even that gigantic form. He 
was staring with a burning fixity at the 



Atlantean priestess. 

She looked lovely indeed. Her deli- 
cate figure was veiled by a girdled robe, 
from the hem of which her tiny toes 
peeped. Her golden hair hung loosely 
about her shoulders, and framed the 
elfin features that showed interested ad- 
miration. 

“Jove’s thunderbolt!” Scipio gasped. 
“Nay, but this is a goddess! This is 
Venus herself!” 

Jansaiya preened herself. Under her 
lashes the sea-green eyes watched Scipio 
slumbrously. She basked in the frank, 
open gaze, 

“This is Scipio?” the priestess asked. 

She came forward and put a small, 
shapely hand bn the Carthaginian’s 
brawny arm. He looked down at her, his 
gargoyle face alight with wonder. 

“You know me? But who are you ?” 

“Jansaiya. ”*The girl glanced over her 
shoulder. “And this is Thordred.” 

Scipio saw the giant for the first time, 
apparently. His gaze met and locked 
with Thordred’s smoldering glare. The 
two men stood silent. Scipio did not 
notice when Jansaiya took her hand 
from his arm. 

Li Yang’s red lips pursed as he 
glanced from one to the other. 

It v/as a sight worth seeing. Thor- 
dred was huge, elephant-thewed, hairy 
as a beast, with jutting beard and hand- 
some aquiline, features. 

Scipio, though slightly shorter, was 
almost as huge. His gargoyle face grew 
stone-hard. Thordred’s cat’s-eyes glit- 
tered. A silent enmity flamed in those 
glares that ■ '^t without speech. 

Ardath b ke the deadlock by coming 
out of the laboratory. 

“We are moving out toward our or- 
bit,” he said, smiling. “Soon it will be 
time to sleep again. Perhaps next 
time — ” He sighed. “Meanwhile, though 
Scipio is not the super-mentality I need, 
he is a genius in his way. Let me ex- 
plain, warrior.” 

Scipio nodded from time to time as 
Ardath told his story. The Cartha- 
ginian’s quick brain grasped the situa- 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 53 



tion without very much difficulty. 

“You will come with us?” Ardath 
asked at last. 

“Why not?” Scipio replied, shrug- 
ging. “The world is not ready for such 
a man as I. In later ages, countries will 
recognize my worth and kneel at my 
feet.” The granite face cracked into a 
grin, and he glanced at Jansaiya. “Be- 
sides, I shall be in good company. To 
how many men is it given to know a 
goddess?” 

^HORDRED growled under his breath 
while Li Yang chuckled. The fat Ori- 
ental picked up his lute and strummed 
softly upon it. His voice raised mel- 
lowly : 

My love has come down from the Moon- 
lantern, 

In the heart of the lotus she dwells — 
“And now” — Ardath turned toward 
the laboratory — “I must adjust my con- 
trols. We shall automatically fall into 
our orbit. For two thousand years we 
shall sleep, and then revisit Earth.” 

He vanished into the next room. Li 
Young sang: 

Fragrant are her hands as petals. 

In her hair the stars dance. 

Jansaiya smiled. Scipio grinned a si- 
lent, confident reply to Thordred’s dark 
scowl. 

Humming power throbbed through 
the ship, swiftly grew louder. Li Yang 
clambered awkwardly on a couch, ges- 
turing for Scipio to follow his example. 
Sleep poured from the monotonous 
sound. Idly Li Yang touched the strings 
of his lute. 

“Give me sweet dreams, dear god- 
dess,” he murmured. 

Jansaiya reclined on a couch. When 
Scipio turned his head to watch her, her 
green eyes met his. 

Thordred moved stiffly forward. His 
hand was hidden from view behind him 
as he stood beside the laboratory door. 

Then languorous humming grew 
louder, more compelling. Jansaiya slept. 
Li Yang’s pudgy hand fell from the lute. 
Scipio’s eyelids drooped. 

Footsteps sounded softly. Through 



the doorway came Ardath, smiling his 
gentle smile. Perhaps he was dreaming 
that when he awoke, he would find his 
quest at an end. Not noticing Thor- 
dred beside him, he turned and fumbled 
over the wall with rapidly slowing 
fingers. 

The skin around Thordred’s eyes 
wrinkled as he fought to remain awake. 
His hand came up with the slow motion 
of encroaching torpor, and he gripped 
a heavy metal bludgeon. 

He crashed it down on Ardath’s head. 

Without a sound, the Kyrian crum- 
pled and fell, lay utterly motionless. 
Blood seeped slowly through his dark 
hair. 

Instantly Thordred lunged through 
the doorway and reeled toward an in- 
strument panel. If he could throw a 
single switch, the sleep-inducing appa- 
ratus would be shut off. 

Louder the humming grew. Its vibra- 
tion shuddered through every atom of 
Thordred’s body. In the next room was 
absolute silence. 

Thordred fell without feeling that he 
was doing so. The shock awakened him. 
He dragged himself to his knees and 
crawled on, his hand clawing desper- 
ately. 

One finger touched the switch and 
helplessly slipped down. The giant 
Earthman crouched, shaking his head 
slowly. 

Then he collapsed and sprawled out, 
silent. The yellow eyes were filmed with 
cataleptic sleep. 

The humming rose to a peak that 
gradually began to die away. Inside the 
golden ship, nothing stirred when it 
reached its orbit and robot controls 
made swift adjustments. Around Earth 
the vessel hurtled. 

The lute fell from Li Yang's couch. 
A string snapped. 

XI 

^-/OURT raced his roadster along the 
Wisconsin road as he peered through 
sun-glasses at the lonely countryside. 



54 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Beside him, Marion Barton huddled like 
a kitten in the seat, the collar of her 
white blouse open for coolness. 

“How long?” she asked. 

“Couple of hours,” Court grunted. 
“We pass through Madison first. The 
’drome’s fifty miles south of there.” 
Marion drew a notebook from her 
handboy and thumbed through it rap- 
idly. 

“Everything’s checked, I think,” she 
reported absently. “Except the test 
flight. I don’t believe the Terra was 
thoroughly inspected.” 

“Damn silly name the papers gave the 
ship,” Court said wryly. “It didn’t need 
a name. It’ll make the flight, all right.” 
“And if it doesn’t?” 

He shrugged indifferently without 
glancing at her. 

“Nothing much lost. For more than 
a month now. I’ve been working on the 
Plague — since Sammy got away — and 
I’m still at sea. Earth’s science just 
isn’t advanced enough. But perhaps I 
can find some more advanced alien sci- 
ence in that golden ship. Anyhow, we’ll 
see.” 

“Why must you go alone?” she in- 
sisted, her voice not quite steady. 

“Because there’s room for only one. 
We can’t take chances. There will be 
little enough air and supplies as it is. 
I’m the be,st man -for the job, so I’m the 
one to go.” 

“But suppose something happens !” 

“I can’t stop the Plague by myself. X 
is still unknown, as far as I’m con- 
cerned. The only real clue so far is en- 
tropy. I know that X is catalyzed by 
some element in Earth’s atmosphere. It 
speeds up the entropy of a living or- 
ganism, changes it into some form of 
life that might exist, normally, a billion 
years from now. But it’s so alien !” 

He switched on the radio. A news 
commentator was talking excitedly. 

“Around Pittsburgh, martial law has 
been declared. Workers are blasting out 
a deep trench around the city, and pour- 
ing deadly acids into it. Whether this 
will form an effective barrier, no one 



knows. The rivers are filled with float- 
ing corpses. The contagion is spreading 
with great speed. Nearly a hundred of 
the Carriers have been seen in Pitts- 
burgh and the bridges are choked with 
refugees.” 

So there were still more of the shining 
monsters. Sammy had been one of the 
first, and he was still wandering at 
large, since nothing could capture or de- 
stroy him. The voice on the radio went 
on: 

“The Carriers kill instantly by touch- 
ing their victims. Lead-plated suits. are 
being issued to the guardsmen ; but 
these do not always work. It depends 
on the quality of energy emitted by a 
Carrier. Dynamite has been placed at 
the New York bridges and tubes. The 
mayor is ready to isolate Manhattan, if 
necessary, for protection. 

“The war is at a standstill. Troops 
are mutinying by the thousands. Every 
metropolis is being vacated. We esti- 
mate about three thousand carriers now 
exist,, widely scattered over the earth. 
From Buenos Aires — ” 

With an impatient gesture. Court shut 
off the radio. 

“No hope,” he said. “The Plague is 
steadily on the increase. I must get to 
the golden ship and back as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

They sat in silent despair as the car 
swept along the deserted highways. The 
landscape was incongruously peaceful. 
The green, rolling hills of Wisconsin 
stretched around them. A broad, lazy 
river flowed quietly beside the road. The 
only sound in the stillness was the hum- 
ming of the motor. 

Marion leaned her head back and 
stared up at the cloudless blue sky. All 
she could do now was let her thoughts 
drift. Suppose the Plague had never 
come to Earth. She and Stephen might 
be driving along together, under this 
same sky, and perhaps — 

She blinked out of her revery and lit 
a cigarette with unsteady fingers. 

“Thanks,” Court said, and took it 
gently from her. 



1 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 5S 



She lit another for herself. 

“Funnyf’ she said. 

Court nodded grimly, staring ahead. 

“Yes, I know. All this changing — 
‘Giving place to the new.’ But God 
knows what the new order will be. A 
world peopled by beings of pure energy, 
eventually consuming all their natural 
food, and dying off. Then there will be 
only a dead planet.” * 

“Will it still be as lovely?” she asked 
softly. 

“Lovely?” Court frowned, seemed to 
notice the landscape for the first time. 
His gaze swept out over the rolling hills 
and the placid river. “Yes,” he said 
finally, in a curious voice, “it is rather 
lovely. I wasn’t aware of it before.” 

“I didn’t think you ever would be,” 
she said. 

He flushed. “I have had so little time.” 

“It wasn’t that. You never looked at 
the world or at human beings. You 
looked through microscopes and tele- 
scopes.” 

TTE GLANCED at the girl and his 
■*- hand went out in a gesture that was 
somehow pathetic. Then his lips tight- 
ened. He drew back, again clutching 
the wheel firmly. He looked ahead grim- 
ly without speaking, not seeing the tears 
that hung on Marion’s lashes. 

They reached the air field soon after. 
The Terra had been wheeled out. A 
shining, golden cylinder, eight feet in 
diameter and twenty feet long, its ends 
were slightly tapered and bluntly 
rounded. It gleamed in contrast to the 
rich black loam on whicli it lay. 

“Small,” Court criticized, “but we had 
no time to make a larger one. It’ll have 
to do.” 

He helped Marion from the car and 
together they went toward the Terra. 
A group of mechanics and workers ap- 
proached. 

“All set,” the foreman stated. “She’s 
warmed up and ready, Mr. Court.” 

“Thanks.” He halted at the open port. 
“Well—” 

“Good luck,” Marion breathed. 



Court stared at her. Curious lines 
that had never been there before now 
bracketed his mouth. He looked away 
at the green hillside, and then back at 
the girl. His lips parted involuntarily, 
but with an effort he controlled himself. 

“Thanks,” he said. “Good-by, Marion. 
I — I’ll see you soon.” 

He entered the ship and closed the 
port behind him. Marion stood quite 
silent, her fingers blindly shredding her 
handkerchief to rags. 

The Terra rose smoothly, swiftly 
mounted straight up. Smaller and 
smaller it grew, a glittering nugget of 
gold against the blue sky. "Then it was 
merely a speck, and it M'as gone. 

Marion turned and walked slowly 
back to the car. Her lips were bravely 
scarlet, yet they quivered against the 
pallor of her face. 

Court sat before the control panel, 
peering ahead through a porthole. 

“Wonder what effect radiation in 
space will have?” he murmured. “It’s 
leaded Polaroid glass, of course, but the 
other ship had no portholes at all. They 
probably used some sort of televisor 
equipment that’s beyond our contempo- 
rary science.” 

He could see nothing but the blue of 
the sky. It grew darker, shading to a 
deep purple. Faint stars began to 
twinkle, until countless points of light 
were glittering frostily. 

“Sirius, Jupiter, Mars.” Court sighed. 

With the secret of space travel mas- 
tered, man could reach all the planets. 
With sufficient power, the intersteller 
gulfs might even be bridged. But how 
long would man continue to exist on 
Earth? 

Hours merged into an unending mo- 
notony of watchful, weary vigilance. 
The Terra plunged on, gathering speed. 

“Meteors might be a menace,” Court 
mused, “unless the magnetic field de- 
flects them. But that would work only 
on ferrous bodies. Still, nothing’s hap- 
pened so far.” He changed his course 
slightly. “I’m doubtful about that space 
armor. Spatial conditions can’t be du- 



56 FANTASTIC STOKY MAGAZINE 



plicated on Earth. Well, I’ve taken 
other precautions.” 

He had had the door made to fit ex- 
actly the port that had been telescopical- 
ly visible on the golden ship. 

A queer excitement grew stronger 
within Court as he neared his destina- 
tion. He could not keep away from the 
transparent ports, for he was desper- 
ately anxious to see the golden ship. 
Some subtle instinct told him that the 
rendezvous might even be more impor- 
tant that he had realized. 

How long had the space ship main- 
tained its orbit beyond the atmophere? 
Whence had it come? What strange 
secrets might it hold? 

When Court found that his fingers 
were trembling slightly on the controls, 
he grimly repressed his nervousness. 
But he could not help wondering. Cen- 
turies — eons, perhaps — might have 
passed while the golden vessel circled 
the planet. And now Stephen Court, 
man of Earth, was questing out to what 
destiny? He did not know, but some 
premonition of the incredible future 
must have come to him, for he shud- 
dered. 

“Somebody’s walked over my grave,” 
he muttered, with a sardonic smile at 
the whimsy. “Well, it won’t be long 
now.” 

Again he turned to the port, and his 
breath caught in his throat. 

The golden ship hung there, a mys- 
terious, gleaming cylinder against the 
star-bright background of black space. 
Swiftly it grew larger. 

\ S COURT decelerated, his face was 
curiously pale. The Terra was easy 
to handle. He deftly pulled it alongside 
the other craft. 

Hull scraped against alloyed hull, till 
finally the two ports were flush together. 
Court threw a lever and hastily spun a 
wheel. He was breathing unevenly, and 
his eyes were glowing with excitement. 

The ships were held firmly together 
by an airtight rubberoid ring. 

He rose, donned a gas-mask, and 



picked up a revolver. Then he went to 
the port and gingerly swung it open. 
The air remained in the ship. 

Facing him was a surface of yellow 
metal, a scarcely visible crack showing 
that it was an oval door. Court pushed, 
but it did not yield. A blow torch might 
cut it, and certainly acids would bite 
enough. But Court did not resort to 
these immediately. He fumbled with a 
powerful electro-magnet and worked 
unavailingly for a time. 

At last, in desperation, he used acids 
to eat a small hole through the outer 
hull. The air that rushed out was thin 
and dead, but far from poisonous. 
Grunting, Court reached through the 
gap and managed to open the port. 

What he expected, he did not know. 
His nerves were strung to wire-edge, 
unbearably tense, now that he was face 
to face with the solution of the mystery. 
The port opened, and for a moment 
Court was weak with reaction. 

He saw nothing but a short corridor, 
about six feet long, featureless and 
vacant. Naturally there would be an 
airlock, for safety’s sake. He should 
have expected one. At the farther end 
was another door, but this one had a 
lever set in it. 

Court walked forward and moved the 
lever slightly. The port swung open. 
Air gusted from the Terra to the golden 
ship. He stepped across the threhsold 
and halted, staring around. 

He was in a good-sized room, ap- 
parently only one of several in this huge 
vessel. Open doorv^ays gaped in the 
walls. The chamber v/as there, with 
nothing but a few couches. 

But on the couches lay human beings ! 

A gigantic gargoyle-faced man was 
naked, save for a clout, his bronzed body 
glistening in the dim illumination that 
came from no discernible source. An- 
other man, an Oriental, fat as a Buddha, 
sprawled untidily on a pile of cushions. 
On the floor beside him lay a lute with 
one broken string. And there was a 
girl. 

An elfin creature with ivory skin, her 



A MltiMON VEAKS TO CONQUEK 57 



lips curved into a tender smile, she slept 
with her golden hair partially veiling 
her face. 

On the floor near a doorway lay an- 
other figure, face down. Court crossed 
to it and turned it over. He stared at 
a slight form and chiseled, patrician 
features. That face had some vague yet 
unmistakable touch of the alien visitor 
to Earth. 

Something caught Court’s eye beyond 
the threshold of the next room. A huge 
body sprawled there, one hand out- 
stretched toward an instrument panel. 

Court strode toward it. 

He halted, realizing that he was in a 
laboratory, but no Earthly one! He 
blinked in astonishment at sight of the 
apparatus surrounding him. Then, forc- 
ing down his curiosity, he knelt beside 
the prone figure and turned it on its 
back. 

The man’s face was handsome in an 
arrogantly ferocious way, though a 
black spade-beard jutted from his pug- 
nacious chin. The giant lay motionless, 
and Court saw that no breath lifted the 
hairy barrel chest. Nevertheless he made 
careful tests, only to realize that the 
man was pulseless, apparently dead. 

For some reason. Court was not con- 
vinced. Could corpses remain in such 
a perfect state of preservation? Was 
there not such a thing as catalepsy ? He 
returned to the others, and found that 
they were equally lifeless, equally well 
preserved. 

There was the long chance of a wild 
hunch. Court returned to his own ship 
and came back with heating pads and 
stimulants. He paused to consider. 

Which bhe should he attempt to re- 
vive first? The girl? The Chinese? 
Why not the bearded man ? His presence 
in the laboratory, the heart of the ship, 
indicated that he was probably a sci- 
entist. 

"IWITH a grunt of decision, Court went 
to the prostrate giant and put down 
his burden. 

Warmth must come first. The heating 



pads were arranged in armpits and 
thighs. 

He followed them with adrenalin, 
with brandy, artificial respiration. 

Court placed his hands in the proper 
position and forced air from the giant’s 
lungs. Then back, and down again. 
Down, and up. 

With a surge and a rush, the man 
came back to life. He flung Court off 
with a swift gesture and sprang up. His 
hand closed on the switch he had been 
striving for. 

But he halted and whirled, his yellow 
cat’s-eyes glowering at the smaller man. 

He said something Court did not un- 
derstand. 

Rising to his feet. Court kept one 
hand on his gun as he watched the giant 
warily. 

Abruptly the blackbeard strode past 
Court and into the next room. When 
he returned, he was grinning. He 
stopped at the door and stood with arms 
akimbo. After a moment he spoke slow- 
ly in Latin. 

It was a language that Court, being 
a scientist, had studied with some thor- 
oughness. 

“I come from Earth,” he explained. 
“The third planet of this Sun. I mean 
no harm. I awoke you — ” 

The other nodded. “I am Thordred. 
But there is no time to talk now. Tell 
me, swiftly as you can, how you found 
us.” 

Court obeyed. As he talked, Thordred 
went into the adjoining room and stood 
contemplating the silent figures. He 
stooped beside the slim body on the 
floor. 

“Dead, I think. Yet — this is your 
ship?” He pointed toward the Terra. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, you will not need it. My ship 
is yours now.” 

A gleam of amusement shone in the 
yellow eyes as Thordred lifted Ardath’s 
body and carried him into the Terra. 
He paused to study the controls. After 
making a careful adjustment, he re- 
turned. 



58 



FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



The door of the Terra he closed be- 
hind him, then both ports of the larger 
ship. Court felt a touch of apprehen- 
sion. 

“Thordred,” he said with quick anger 
in his voice, “what are you doing?” 

The giant turned to a vision screen in 
the wall. 

He flicked it on. 

“Look!” 

On the screen. Court saw the Terra, 
flashing away through space. He felt 
a sudden pang that chilled to cold rage. 

“What right—” 

Thordred grinned. “Slowly, Stephen 
Court. I have said that this ship is 
yours. As for him” — black hatred shone 
in the yellow eyes — “he was a renegade 
and a traitor. He tried to kill us all. He 
is dead now, but science and magic may 
bring even a dead man back to life. So 
Ardath is going where there is neither 
science nor magic — toward the Sun!” 

“The Sun !” 

“Yes. I set the controls on your ship. 
They were not difficult to understand. 
Ardath is doomed, if a dead man can 
die again. And now we will attend to 
the others.” 

He glanced at the silent figures on the 
couches. 

“We’ll awaken them?” Court asked. 

“One at a time. The girl first.” Thor- 
dred hesitated. “Revive Jansaiya, Court, 
while I adjust the apparatus. We are 
going back to Earth.” 

“Good.” Court smiled. “We need your 
help.” 

His throat felt achingly dry, for at 
last his search was at an end. With the 
science of this Thordred added to his 
own, the Plague could be fought, per- 
haps conquered. 

Thordred was smiling triumphantly 
as he went into the laboratory. 

XII 

JBr ROMPTLY Court busied himself 
with the golden-haired girl. The feline 
look in Jansaiya’s sophisticated green 
eyes, and the vague suggestion of cruel- 



ty about her lips, were not in evidence 
now as she lay in cataleptic sleep. 
Rather she seemed some elfin creature 
out of Earth’s myth-haunted past, a 
daughter of Neptune. 

The violet-tinted gossamer robe scare- 
ly veiled the alluring curves of her slim 
form. Her lashes lay golden on the rose- 
petal cheeks. She seemed helpless, child- 
like. Utterly trusting, she lay curled 
like a kitten on the couch. 

The poignant loveliness of the At- 
lantean girl was suddenly an aching 
stab in Court’s heart. He felt no passion 
for her, no infatuation. She was too 
completely removed from mundane life 
for that. But Jansaiya curiously seemed 
to typify and embody for Court some- 
thing he had never known. Out of the 
world’s youth, she was youth, a symbol 
of the dreams that most men know be- 
fore they grow too old. 

Staring down at Jansaiya, Court re- 
alized that he had never known youth 
and wondrous dreams. Unexpectedly 
he thought of Marion Barton, whom he 
had left on Earth. He put her out of 
his mind by working swiftly. 

Occasionally Thordred came to the 
door of the laboratory to watch, but as 
time wore on the giant appeared less 
often. Though he had learned much 
when the thought-transference helmet 
had given him the knowledge of Ar- 
dath’s brain, Thordred had not acquired 
the Kyrian’s super-mentality. 

Guiding the ship back to Earth was 
a difficult task. Besides, he was busy 
making certain adjustments on the 
thought-helmet. So he remained in the 
laboratory, and did not see Jansaiya 
waken. 

Court had turned away to stare curi- 
ously at the other two sleepers, Li Yang 
and Scipio the Carthaginian. The giant 
warrior puzzled him. Since the man 
wore only a breech-clout. Court found it 
hard to guess his origin. The color of 
the skin was negroid, but the thin, firm, 
harsh lips and the hair certainly were 
not. Li Yang, though, was obviously an 
Oriental. What did that mean? Had this 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 5f 



space ship actually come from another 
world ? 

The golden-haired girl might have 
been born on an alien planet — perhaps 
even Thordred and the sleeping, naked 
giant had also. But the Oriental? Court 
frowned, and then glanced at Jansaiya 
as she strirred. 

She had been breathing regularly for 
some time. Now her lashes fluttered and 
the green eyes opened. When she looked ' 
up at Court, a soft, wordless sound of 
inquiry murmured from the red lips. 
“Athloyee s’ya voh—” 

Court matched the girl’s language, 
which he did not know was Atlantean, 
with Latin. 

“Don’t try to talk yet. You are safe.” 
The brows wrinkled in puzzlement as 
the cruel gaze scrutinized him. 

“I am safe? Of course. But where 
is Ardath?” 

“Dead. Thordred — ” 

Court paused, startled at the look on 
Jansaiya’s face. He saw fear, and in- 
credulous amazement, and a soft smile 
of evil triumph that repelled him. 

“Dead?” She turned her head and 
looked across the room. “Li Yang. Yes. 
And Scipio. But Thordred, is he dead 
also?” 

“No. Shall I get him?” 

Court rose, but halted as a slim hand 
touched him. 

“Wait. Who are you?” 

Before he could reply, Thordred’s 
harsh voice broke in. 

“.Jansaiya! You are awake? Good!” 
The giant strode into the room, his 
amber eyes intent on the girl. Briefly 
they flickered toward Court. 

“We are in the atmosphere now. 
There is not much time. Come with 
me.” 

Thordred made a quick, stealthy sig- 
nal to Jansaiya, which Court failed to 
understand. The Atlantean girl pursed 
her lips but said nothing. 

In the laboratox'y, Thordred pointed 
to a chair. 

“Sit down. Court. Put on this helmet.” 
He picked up a bulky headpiece, 



crowned with helical wires, and ex- 
tended it. Court hesitated. 

“What is it?” he asked cautiously. 

“Nothing dangerous. It will teach you 
my language, and teach me yours. Cer- 
tain memory patterns, knowledge of our 
native tongue, will be tranferred from 
my brain to yours, and vice versa. 
Come.” 

Thordred placed a duplicate helmet 
on his own head and sat down. Some 
inexplicable impulse made Court resist. 

“I’m not sure — ” 

The giant grinned suddenly. 

“I told you T mean you no harm. If 
I had wanted to kill you, I could have 
done it long ago. I need your knowl- 
edge, and you need mine.” Thordred 
chuckled at some secret thought. “And 
it is best that we know each other’s 
language.” 

“All right.” 

C OURT nodded and slipped the helmet 
on his head. Simultaneusly Thor- 
dred leaned forward and touched a key- 
board. There was a whining crackle of 
released energy. Court felt the momen- 
tary agony of intolerable stricture about 
his skull, then it was gone. The scene be- 
fore him was blotted out by a curtain 
of darkness. He lost consciousness. . . . 

It seemed scarcely a second later when 
he awoke. Painfully opening his eyes, 
he saw that the laboratory was empty. 
His head ached fearfully. The helmet, 
however, was gone, as he discovered by 
investigating with his hands. 

“Awake, eh?” The words were un- 
mistakably in English. Thordred stood 
on the threshold. He went to a shelf, 
took a flask from it, and gave it to 
Court. “Drink this. It’s a stimulant. 
Not like your — what was it, brandy? — 
but equally potent.” 

Court gulped the fluid, which was 
tasteless and incredibly cold. Immedi- 
ately his headache was gone. He glanced 
up at the giant. 

“You learned English, I see. That 
helmet’s a handy gadget. But I didn’t 
learn your language!” 



60 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“No,” Thordred admitted. “The ad- 
justment wasn’t quite accurate. But it 
doesn’t matter. There’s plenty of time. 
Meanwhile, as you say, I can talk Eng- 
lish. Only that was necessary for us 
to be able to discuss scientific princi- 
ples.” 

Stephen saw the common sense of 
that. There were no ancient Latin terms 
for modern scientific theories and de- 
vices. 

“Where are we now?” he asked. 

“On Earth.” Thordred glanced 
searchingly at him. “Court, I’ll be frank 
with you. I learn more than merely 
your language from your mind. The 
Plague that worries you, for example. 
I acquired your memory of that.” 

“You did?” 

Court’s dark face twisted in a scowl 
as he felt the premonition of danger. 
Just how much had Thordred learned 
from him? He shrugged, knowing that 
it did not matter. The bearded giant 
was a friend, the only strong' ally on 
Earth. Why look for trouble where 
none existed? 

“I’ve decided what’s best to be done,” 
Thordred said. “This Plague — I know 
no more about it than you do. I don’t 
know its origin or nature, nor any way 
of defeating it.” 

Court leaped to his feet, a sick empti- 
ness in his stomach. 

“Thordred! With your science and 
mine, we should be able to find some 
way of conquering it.” 

“There’s only one way. Earth is 
doomed. Anyone who remains will even- 
tually be destroyed. But this is a space 
ship. Court, and it isn’t necessary for us 
to wait for destruction.” With a lifted 
hand, Thordred forestalled interrup- 
tion. “Wait. There are other planets 
where life is possible, where the Plague 
doesn’t exist. We can carry from fifty 
to seventy passengers, men and women. 
That will be enough to start a new race 
and civilization on another v,mrld.” 

“No !” Court scarcely knew he spoke. 
“You mean go off and leave the world 
to doom?” 



“What good would it be to stay? We’d 
merely guarantee our own destruction. 
You’re a strong, intelligent man. Court, 
the sort of person I want in the civiliza- 
tion I shall build. That’s why I did not 
kill you.” 

Court’s eyes narrowed. There was a 
dead silence. Thordred’s chill glance 
did not falter. 

“I can kill you, even now, quite easi- 
ly,” he went on slowly. “But the choice 
is yours. Join me, serve me with your 
fine brain and muscles, and you need not 
die. What’s your answer?” 

Court was silent, trying to analyze his 
feelings. Of course his anxiety to defeat 
the Plague was purely scientific. How 
could he, a super-intellect, feel any sym- 
pathy for ordinary men and women? 
What did it matter if Earth died, as 
long as a new civilization would be built 
on a distant, safer world ? 

A bell rang sharply through the ship. 
When Thordred flicked on a vision 
screen. Court stared at it. 

^HE SPACE ship had landed in what 

seemed to be a park. Suddenly he 
recognized it as Central Park, in New 
York. About the ship, a cordon of police 
was keeping back a surging crowd. A 
small group of uniformed men huddled 
close to the hull, using an acetylene 
torch to burn through the metal. 

Thordred grinned. “Perhaps I could 
have landed in a less populated spot, 
but I’m impregnable, with the weapons 
at my command. One flash of a certain 
ray, and that crowd will be burned to 
cinders.” 

“You don’t intend to — ” Court heard 
himself saying. 

“But I do. The sooner Earth learns 
my power, the better!” 

Thordred turned and went to a con- 
trol board. Stephen Court stared at 
him. The emotions he had rigidly sub- 
dued all his life were flooding up into 
that cold brain of his. But it was not 
cold now. Burning in Court’s mind was 
the face of Marion Barton, tender with 
humanity. He saw the face of old Sam- 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 61 



my, brown anjj wrinkled. Sammy had 
sacrificed himself for an ideal, an ideal 
in which Court did not believe. 

He had not believed in it till now. 
Court’s heritage, the basic humanity 
in him, suddenly flooded through the 
artificial barriers of restraint. He had 
fought the Plague to save men and wom- 
en from horrible death, though he had 
not realized his true motive till now. 
Falsely he had told himself that he was 
a scientific machine. He had almost 
hypnotized himself into believing it. But 
all along. Court realized now, his mo- 
tives had been those of common hu- 
manity. 

A super-mentality, perhaps, but first 
of all he was a man ! He would instinc- 
tively fight to protect those weaker than 
himself, even against insuperable odds. 

Court’s breath caught in his throat as 
he saw Thordred push a lever in the 
control board. With silent desperation 
he hurled himself at the bearded giant. 

He was hurled back by a paralyzing 
shock. Thordred whirled, his mouth 
gaping. As Court tensed himself for 
another leap, the giant halted him with 
a lifted hand. 

“You fool, you can’t penetrate this 
force screen around my body. Stay 
where you are!” 

Court did not move, but his lean fig- 
ure quivered with suppressed fury. 

“You have your science, Thordred, 
but so have I.” 

“Your science ?” Thordred bellowed. 
He thrust out a huge hand, gripped 
Court. “Listen to me! I told you I 
learned more from you than your lan- 
guage. That was true. I drained your 
brain of all the knowledge it held. Your 
memory is mine now.” 

Court went sick as the import of the 
words struck home. His gaze went from 
Thordred’s face, moved swiftly about 
the laboratory for some weapon. But 
the apparatus was utterly infamiliar to 
him. Yet it had to be based on rigid 
scientific principles that would be the 
same in any Universe. 

Court’s mind worked with frantic 



speed, trying to find some coherent pat- 
tern. Levers, buttons, wiring, trans- 
parent tubes — each one had its definite 
part. On one panel, several red lights 
were flashing on and off. Below each 
light. Court recognized what must have 
been push-buttons. 

There were two possible answers. - 
Either the switchboard had some con- 
nection with Thordred’s death ray, of 
which he had spoken, or else it was part 
of an alarm system. It was probably an 
alarm system, since Thordred was busy 
at another instrument panel. The police 
outside the ship were trying to burn 
through a port, and the red light was 
flashing. The button beneath that light,- 
Court decided, probably opened the door. 

His face was immobile as he 
shrugged, deliberately letting his shoul- 
ders droop despairingly. Thordred’s 
mouth twisted into a triumphant grin. 
He half turned from his prisoner, and 
his hand touched the lever again. 

And then Court sprang — not at Thor- 
dred. He leaped toward the panel where 
the red light glowed. His finger stabbed 
out and depressed the button ! 

XIII 

J^UST too late came Thordred’s roar. 
A burst of sound welled into the ship. 
Men were shouting, and footsteps 
tramped loudly on the metal floor of the 
airlock. Court sped to meet them. His 
hands lifted above his head, he was 
shouting warning. The skin of his back 
crawled with expectation of an attack. 

But Thorndred did not pursue. In- 
stead, there came a sizzling crackle from 
behind Court. Strong hands caught him, 
and he found himself in the midst of a 
group of police. He turned. 

Across the door of the laboratory, a 
veil of wavering light flickered. Court 
seized the arm of an officer to prevent 
him from moving toward the hazy glow. 

“Wait! That’s dangerous.” 

“What do you mean? Who are you?” 

“Never mind that now. Shoot through 
the light, but don’t go near it. You 



62 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



may be electrocuted. Do as I say.” 

The leader of the group, a gray- 
haired, bulky man, stared. 

“I know you. You’re Stephen Court. 
I’ve seen your pictures in the paper. 
What is all this about, anyhow?” 

Court swiftly noted the insignia of 
rank on the man’s blue sleeve. 

“There’s no time now. Sergeant. 
There’s a killer beyond that light bar- 
rier. He’s got to be stopped!” 

“But we can’t shoot down a man on 
your word.” 

Court sucked in his breath, then his 
hand went out in a blurring motion. 

Grabbing a heavy revolver from one 
of the officers, he whirled and pumped 
bullets at the barrier of fire. Flame 
crackled and snarled. The bullets could 
not penetrate the barrier. Half-melted, 
they dropped to the floor. 

The revolver was wrested from his 
hand. The sergeant eyed him in amaze- 
ment, holding the smoking gun. 

“I tell you — ” 

Court made a gesture of despair as 
he heard a low whine, rising in pitch 
and intensity, throbbing through the 
ship. He knew that Thordred was busy 
in the laboratory. He tried a new tack. 

“This ship may be blown up at any 
minute. Get your men out. Keep the 
crowd back.” He hesitated, then pointed 
to the unconscious forms of the Chinese 
and the gargoyle-faced giant on . their 
couches. “Get them out, too.” 

Jansaiya, the Atlantean girl, was no- 
where in sight, and there was no time to 
search for her. 

The menace of explosion the sergeant 
could understand. He issued swift or- 
ders. His men swarmed out of the ship, 
carrying the cataleptic men. 

Court followed. He could not guess 
what Thordred would do now, but he 
suspected that the killer might loose his 
death rays on the mob. Orders ran from 
one officer to another. The crowd was 
pushed back, milling, asking questions, 
shuffling unwillingly. 

Standing at the sergeant’s side. Court 
bit his lip in indecision. What now? 



Thordred was impregnable behind his 
force screen. Without equipment, Court 
could do nothing. With the right ap- 
paratus, he knew, he could find the 
vibration-rate of the screen and neu-- 
tralize it. But there was no equipment 
here. 

“This got anything to do with the 
Plague?” the sergeant said. “We’re 
evacuating New York, you know.” 

“What? Evacuating New York!” 

“Yeah. The Plague’s hit us. The city’s 
a death-trap, with eight million people 
here. Martial law’s been declared, 
though, and everything’s under control. 
The whole city’s moving out before the 
Plague spreads.” 

Court nodded, staring at the ship. 

“Well, clear the Park and get some 
planes to bomb our friend there. I don’t 
know if explosive will harm him, but it’s 
worth trying while there’s still time. As 
for those two unconscious men you took 
out of the ship, get them to a hospital. 
We’ll—” 

There was a sudden interruption. 
From the golden hull, a ray of cold green 
brilliance probed. As it shot toward 
Court, he felt a wave of icy chill. All the 
strength was abruptly drained from his 
body. He felt himself falling. 

The ray flamed brighter, turned to 
yellow, then to white. It splashed in pale 
radiance over the sergeant. His strong 
face seemed to melt, the flesh blackening 
in cindery horror over the bone-struc- 
ture. The officer dropped without a 
sound. 

Through filming eyes. Court saw the 
golden space ship rise from its resting 
place. It shot up and hovered. Fleeing 
abruptly into the western skies, it was 
gone! 

When the ray touched Court, it had 
not been strong enough to kill, only to 
paralyze. But the sergeant was horribly 
dead. 

Court felt himself slipping down 
into the black pit of unconsciousness. 
His last memory was that of some small 
bird wheeling above him against the 
blue. Then darkness took him. ... 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 



63 



TTEARING returned to him first. The 
sound was confused and chaotic. 
Court lay motionless, striving to analyze 
it. As if from a vast distance, he seemed 
to hear a babble of voices, faintly 
mumbling what sounded like gibberish. 
Piercing through this was a medley of 
shrill whistles and sirenlike noises that 
were utterly inexplicable. 

Then Court opened his eyes, looked' 
straight up at a bare white ceiling. Sun- 
light made square patterns on it. 

He could move, he discovered. With- 
out difficulty he sat up, found that he 
was in one of a row of cots that ran 
down the length of a long room. He was 
in a hospital ! 

Court’s voice cracked when he cried 
out. He tried again, but roused only an 
echo. Wonderingly he rubbed his chin 
and gasped in amazement. A beard? He 
must have been unconscious for two 
weeks, at least! 

He rose, shivering in his regulation 
hospital nightgown. Though the win- 
dows were closed, the room was icy cold. 
Rocking weakly on his feet, Court 
looked around. 

The man in the next bed looked fami- 
liar. It was the obese Oriental he had 
last seen in the golden space ship ! The 
man lay silent, motionless, no breath 
lifting his huge paunch. 

In the cot beyond lay the scar-faced 
giant, the man who had resembled a 
gladiator. He, too was apparently dead 
or in a cataleptic state. 

Some of the other beds were occupied, 
Court saw. He made a quick investiga- 
tion. Strangers, and dead, all of them. 
Some had plainly died of starvation and 
thirst. The blankets in most cases were 
tumbled and twisted, and some of the 
bodies lay on the floor, where they had 
apparently flung themselves. One griz- 
zled oldster was huddled in a heap near 
the door, his skinny hand still out- 
stretched for aid that could never come. 

The hospital must have been deserted. 
But what could have caused medical 
men to forsake their patients? Physi- 
cians do not break the Hippocratic Oath 



so easily. That meant — 

The Plague! 

His throat tight. Court stumbled to a 
table where a carafe of water stood. It 
was stagnant with long standing and 
half evaporated, but he gulped down a 
repulsive swallow. 

A folded newspaper on the table 
caught his gaze. Hastily he folded the 
paper to the first page. Flaring head- 
lines greeted him. 

PLAGUE STRIKES NEW YORK ! 

20 Carriers Reported in Manhattan 
Mayor Orders City Evacuated! 

Hastily linotyped columns gave the 
story. All over Greater New York, the 
plague had suddenly appeared. In 
Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, fi'om Har- 
lem to the Battery the shining men, 
harbingers of weird death, had ap- 
peared. 

Thinking the invasion had arrived by 
way of Jersey and the surrounding area, 
the mayor had directed the evacuation 
to take place northward. But in the box 
labeled “Latest News Bulletins,” it be- 
came apparent that the infection was 
spreading with fatal speed. Among eight 
millions of people, the Plague ran like 
wildfire. 

Well, judging bj^ his beard and the 
date of the paper, that had been two 
weeks ago. What was the country like 
now? 

Court went to the window and stared 
out. The bleak, snow-covered expanse of 
Central Park was far below. Small, ir- 
regular dark blotches lay on the white- 
ness. Were they bodies? 

Court found a telephone and jiggled 
the receiver impatiently. Not even the 
dial-tone answered him. New York must 
be entirely deserted, save by the dead ! 

Again he went to the window. This 
time he saw a shining oval of light, 
dwarfed by distance, gliding under the 
trees in the park. A Carrier ! 

Court knew he could not remain in 
New York. With a nod of decision, he 
glanced at the two motionless figures 



64 



FANTASTIC STOEY MAGAZINE 



on the cots beside his own. Hastily he 
began to gather equipment. He saw a 
use for the Oriental and the giant. He 
could not leave them here, frozen in 
cataleptic sleep, even if he did not think 
their knowledge might prove valuable. 

He used heat, stimulants and artificial 
respiration. The stimulants were easy 
to procure, after a trip down the cor- 
ridor into adjoining wards. It was hard- 
er to find adrenalin. Court had to break 
down a door before locating the drug, 
but finally he was ready. 

I^LECTRICITY, rather than gas, sup- 
plied the hospital. He knew there 
would be no current now. Court hesi- 
tated. Frowning, he stared out the win- 
dow. He heard again the distant din that 
had awakened him — the faint hooting, 
and the low mumble of far voices. 

Radios, of course ! Innumerable radios 
had been left turned on when the evacu- 
ation had taken place, and they were 
still broadcasting. That meant there was 
still electricity. Relieved, Court found 
heating pads and pressed them into 
place about his two patients. 

Little artificial respiration was nec- 
essary. Under the shock of the adrena- 
lin, first the giant, and then the Oriental, 
stirred. They wakened almost together. 

Court gave a gasp of relief. Till then 
he had not realized just how much his 
fortnight of hypnotized slumber had 
weakened him. Not only slowed and re- 
tarded metabolism, but he had not eaten 
nor drunk for weeks. Shivering, he sank 
down on a cot and watched his patients 
slowly and gradually awaken. 

There was so much to do! He must 
communicate with these two. But what 
language did they speak? Would they be 
able to understand Latin? After that, 
there would be so many things! Find 
out what had happened, leave New York 
safely — 

“But the first thing,” Court mur- 
mured, “is to stow some food under my 
belt. No,” he resolved, glancing down at 
his nightgown, “the first thing I need is 
a pair of pants!” 



XIV 

^^^EARLY an hour later Court finally 
finished his story and learned from Li 
Yang and Scipio their own tale. Luckily 
both understood Latin. When Court’s 
knowledge of the language failed, he 
pieced it out in Greek, which Scipio 
knew well. 

“I am familiar with all the tongues 
spoken around the Middle Sea — the 
Mediterranean,” the huge Carthaginian 
stated. “This English of yours sounds 
like a hybrid language, a mixture of 
Latin, Greek, Goth, and Zeus knows 
what else. However, I will learn it. We 
had a saying that those in Helvetia had 
best do as the Helvetians do, though all 
they generally did was freeze.” 

Scipio chuckled deep in his barrel 
chest. 

“We have a saying that jackasses 
bray at inopportune moments,” said Li 
Yang blandly. “Therefore, hold your 
tongue, Scipio, while we make some 
plans.” He sighed ponderously. “So 
Ardath is dead, eh? Eheu, he was a wise 
man, and a good one. Also I have lost 
my lute, so I grieve.” 

“I scarcely knew Ardath,” Scipio con- 
fessed, “though he saved my life, of 
course. *-But the nymph-girl, Jansaiya — 
I needed only a glimpse of her to lose 
my heart and soul.” The gargoyle face 
twisted in pained memory. “What had 
we best do. Court?” 

“Get out of New York. After that, we 
can make our plans. I want to get back 
to my laboratory. But first — well, come 
along.” 

Court rose and led the others into the 
corridor. Li Yang shivered as the chill 
wind rustled under his scanty gown. 

“The world has grown colder,” he 
mourned. “Not even on the Northern 
steppes did I feel such a knifelike blast.” 

Court was unavailingly pressing the 
elevator buttons. 

“Guess they’re not working,” he said 
wryly. “That means we’ll have to walk 
all the way down. It’ll keep us warm, 



65 



A MILLION YEAKS TO CONQUER 



anyway. Watch, out for any Carriers.” 

Scipio shook his head as the three 
hurried down the stairs. 

“I do not understand this Plague. 
Civilizations chahge, of course. New 
gods and new magics spring up. But 
what you tell me of this' Plague smacks 
of the vrykrolokas, the vampire.” 

The others had no breath for talking. 
Scipio continued to muse aloud as they 
descended. Wlien they reached the 
street, though, he was the only one who 
was not panting. 

“Zeus, Apollo, Kronos, and Neptune!” 
he roared, staring up at the skyscrapers. 
“Surely the gods must have reared these 
buildings!” 

“Did gods build the Nilotic pyra- 
mids?” Li Yang asked with breathless 
irony. “Men learn always,. and always 
they build higher. But my poor toes will 
be frozen!” He danced about grotes- 
quely in the slush. “You are a hardy 
race. Court, to walk about in these 
skimpy togas.” 

Court was glancing about swiftly. 

“Come in here,” he said. 

He hurried toward a nearby shop. He 
had seen that the window was broken, 
and a burglar alarm was clanging loud- 
ly from within. That explained the med- 
ley of noises he had heard from the 
hospital. Hundreds of burglar alarms, 
all over New York, were screaming. The 
mobs must have looted during their 
flight. This men’s clothing shop had cer- 
tainly been looted, judging by its ap- 
pearance. Court could understand why 
property rights didn’t mean much just 
now. 

He guided Li Yang and Scipio to the 
various departments, and helped them 
outfit themselves with suitable clothing. 

“Breeches and boots will be best, I 
think,” he suggested. “We may have 
hard going. Pick out large-sized boots 
or you’ll blister your feet in an hour.” 

It was difficult to find clothing that 
fitted the gigantic Carthaginian, and 
even harder to equip Li Yang, but at 
last the task was finished. Completely 
clothed, even to fleece-lined gloves, the 



three returned to the street. 

Now they needed food and drink. 
Down the avenue a little way was an 
Automat. Court led them into it, pausing 
at the entrance to examine a motionless, 
shrunken body that lay there. 

It was the corpse of a man, emaciated 
and pallid, frozen rigid. It was oddly 
shriveled, which Court recognized as 
the stigmata of Plague victims. Though 
the man had certainly been dead since 
the evacuation of New York, there was 
no sign of decomposition. 

“Draining of vital energy me^s ab- 
solute sterility, no germs or microbes — 
that’s logical,” Court muttered. 

At least there would be no danger of 
a pestilence. He smiled crookedly. Pes- 
tilence ? 

There was nobody to be harmed by it, 
anyway. 

\ RADIO in the Automat was hum- 
ming noisily. Court hesitated, still 
inhibited by a lifetime of conditioning. 
But he went to the change desk, and 
appropriated a handful of nickels. 

Supplying the others with trays, he 
carefully selected foods that appeared 
still edible. The coffee spigot ran a tar- 
colored, icy fluid. But it was somewhat 
better than the sour milk and stale 
water. 

Court went to the radio and adjusted 
it. Then he joined the others at one of 
the round little tables. 

“News,” he said, nodding at the box 
that was strange to them. “I’ll trans- 
late.” 

“Static is becoming increasingly trou- 
blesome as the Plague grows,” the radio 
blared. “The electrical energy emitted 
by the Carriers interferes with broad- 
casting. European short-wave trans- 
mission is impossible. The transoceanic 
cables have failed. From Washington, 
D. C. comes the latest European news, 
brought by Clipper across the Atlantic. 

“The plague seems to have concen- 
trated its force so far in the Western 
Hemisphere, though its strength is in- 
creasing gradually in Europe. Ports are 



6« FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



crowded as mobs try to storm their way 
onto ships outward bound. There is a 
feeling that on the high seas is safety. 
This is untrue. 

“The Hozima Maru, a passenger ship, 
was today washed upon the coast at 
Point Reyes, above San Francisco. 
Spectators reported that the only living 
beings aboard were several Carriers.” 

In grim undertones Court translated. 

“The Eastern Seaboard is still being 
evacuated,” the voice went on. “The 
United States is under martial law. As 
yet the Plague remains a mystery, 
though all over the world, scientists are 
working night and day to check it. A 
scientific congress has been called at 
The Hague, to convene tomorrow at 
noon. 

“We are still receiving reports about 
the mysterious golden airship which 
first appeared in Central Park, New 
York, two 'weeks ago. Since then it has 
landed eight times, always in a sparsely 
populated area. Unconfirmed reports 
state that men and women have been 
forced to enter the ship. Two hours ago, 
according to San Francisco’s station 
KFRC, the ship landed on the Berlieley 
Hills,” 

Court’s voice rose excitedly as he 
translated. Scipio sat back with a grunt, 
and the Oriental pursed his red lips. 

“So Thordred’s still on Earth.” Li 
Yang rubbed his fat hands together. 
“Good ! Court, there are marvels of 
science in the golden ship, all the won- 
ders of Ardath’s great civilization. If 
you can get your hands on them — ” 

Court frowned. “As soon as Thordred 
finishes recruiting the people he needs 
to start a new life on a different planet, 
he’ll vanish forever. The worst of it is, 
he’s drained my mind, taken all my 
knowledge. Everything I know, I share 
with him now. But I’ve got to get back 
to my Wisconsin lab. I have apparatus 
there that will enable me to construct a 
weapon or two that might give me a 
chance against Thordxed. But till I get 
to the lab, I can’t even iSocate the golden 
ship.” 



“Then why do we wait here?” Scipio 
thrust back his chair and stood up, 
towering incongruously in the gleaming 
shininess of the Automat. “Let us hur- 
ry!” 

They went out. Behind them the radio 
blared : 

“ — shall keep broadcasting as long as 
we are able. The city is entirely evacu- 
ated. We are barricaded in this station, 
and shall remain here until our power 
fails, or until. . . . This is WOR, New- 
ark, New Jersey. All listeners are 
warned to leave their homes immediate- 
ly, and — ” 

Fifth Avenue lay silent under a white 
mantle. Snow had fallen within the past 
twenty-four hours. The sky. however, 
was blue and cloudless. Singularly eerie 
was the silence that lay over New York, 
made more horrible by the mutter of 
radios and the distant jarring of alarms. 
These, too, would die when the power 
failed. 

There were bodies in the streets, most 
of them white-mounded hummocks un- 
der the snow. Hundreds of automobiles 
had been wrecked. A huge bus lay on its 
side beside an overturned garbage 
truck. 

Twice they saw carriers — shining, 
pallid ovals of glowing radiance — float- 
ing toward them. Each time Court led 
his companions into buildings and 
through a roundabout course of pas- 
sages and stairways that led them to 
safety. 

“The subway might be safer,” he 
mused, “but there may be Carriers down 
there. And the power’s still on, of 
course.” 

C OURT did not mention his fear of 
the carnage he might discover un- 
derground. Yet curiously the Plague had 
left little horror in its wake. It was far 
too fantastically unreal. The bombs and 
shrapnel of war would have left blood 
and ruin. But this — There was only 
white silence, and bodies that were less 
like corpses than cold statues of marble. 
“Here.” Court halted by a parked 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 67 



automobile. “No, there’s no gas.” He 
frowned, after a glance at the dash- 
board gauge. “Come on.” 

Scipio was peering into a window. 
Abruptly he kicked high, and the glass 
fell in clattering shards. The Cartha- 
ginian reached through the gap and 
brought out a cavalry saber in its scab- 
bard. 

“It’s light enough,” he grunted, bal- 
ancing the weapon in his hand. “But it’s 
sharp. We may need this.” 

He fastened it to his belt, while Li 
Yang was peering down the street. 

“Court!” the Oriental called. “What 
Is it?” 

“A Carrier—” 

“I see it” 

Swiftly Court guided his companions 
around the corner. They turned west 
from Fifth Avenue into Fifty-eighth 
Street. Half a block down, they paused 
at sight of two more Carriers coming 
toward them. 

Court glanced around. On his right 
was a street blocked with a mass of 
automobile wreckage. The tower of 
Rockefeller Plaza rose into the sky. On 
his left was the entrance of an office 
building. But through the glass doors. 
Court could see that the lobby was 
strewn with bodies, struck down as they 
had tried to escape the onrushing 
Plague. 

Court wondered with a strange 
twinge of pity, how many of them had 
been ready for death. Probably none. 

He came to himself abruptly. There 
was no time for philosophizing. The 
carriers were closing in upon them from 
both sides. Scipio pointed to the side 
street. 

“There. We can climb over.” 

“Wait!” Court’s sharp command 
halted the others on the curb. “Here’s a 
car.” 

A large, black sedan was parked a few 
feet away. Two bodies lay near it — a 
man’s and a woman’s. The girl, scarcely 
more than a child, lay in a pitiful little 
huddle on the running-board, her blond 
hair whitened with snow. The man, a 



bulky, dark young fellow, lay with his 
face in the gutter, a cigar still drooping 
from one corner of his mouth. 

But the keys were in the ignition. 
Hastily Court sprang into the car, 
turned the key and pressed the starter. 
He really expected no response. To his 
surprise, the battery painfully turned 
the cold engine over. » 

Court dared waste no more time. He 
glanced around. With a gasp of relief, 
he saw that the shining bodies of the 
Carriers had halted. They were at least 
a hundred feet away, and there might 
still be time. 

He kept his foot down on the starter. 
The motor caught and abruptly died. 
Viciously he manipulated the choke. 

“Get ready to run!” he warned. 

But again the motor caught, and 
Court gunned it with great care. The 
echoes boomed out thunderously in the 
canyon of the street. Li Yang and Scipio 
sat tensely beside Court, more afraid of 
this noisy invention than of the incom- 
prehensible Carriers. 

"They are coming toward us,” Scipio 
reported in an understone, feeling for 
his saber. “I shall get out and hold them 
back till—” 

“No!” Court let out the clutch. “Stay 
where you are.” 

The car jerked into motion. There was 
a sickening moment when the motor 
sputtered, coughed, and almost stopped. 

Court jammed down the gas, heard 
the exhaust pipe crack open with a deaf- 
ening roar. Then they were plunging 
forward. 

But the Carriers were ominously 
close. Into Court’s mind came a weird, 
illogical thought: “Pillars of fire and 
smoke.” Was that it? It didn’t matter, 
for two of them directly ahead, were 
gliding toward the car. 

He spun the wheel, skidded on the 
slushy pavement. He shot between the 
two monsters, missing them by a hair’s 
breadth. The sedan rocketed on, gather- 
ing speed. 

Court swallowed hard and wiped the 
perspiration from his forehead with the 



68 



FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



back of his hand, sighing audibly. 

“Narrow squeak.” He added with wry 
humor, “This is a one-way street, and 
we’re going the wrong way. But I doubt 
if we’ll get a ticket.” 

^HEY crossed Sixth Avenue, then 
Seventh, and turned left on Broad- 
waj^ Court headed for the Holland Tun- 
nel. Before he reached the tube, he 
sighted a tangle of wreckage which told 
him that route was closed. Hastily he 
turned north along the Hudson, hoping 
he could get through at the George 
Washington Bridge. 

The ice-bordered river flowed past 
silently, unruffled now by any boats. In 
the distance, the Jersey Palisades were 
traceries of frost. No smoke at all rose 
on the skyline. 

“Gods!” Scipio observed. “This is a 
world of wonders, Court. What is that?” 

“Grant’s Tomb,” said Court. “Let’s 
see what the radio says.” 

He switched it on, but got only static. 
He turned the switch off, for he did not 
know the battery’s strength. He had al- 
most a tankful of gas, he saw, and was 
grateful for that. Yet it would not take 
him to Wisconsin. 

He would take the straight western 
route toward Chicago, and then cut 
northwest, unless he could find an air- 
plane. But in this disorganized area, 
Court doubted whether one wduld be 
available. They all must have been com- 
mandeered. 

The bridge was open. They shot, 
across, disregarding the glaring speed 
limit signs. 

Court found the highway he wanted. 
He sped on, seeing no sign of life. He 
was remined of the last time he had 
driven across the Wisconsin hills, with 
Marion at his side. It almost seemed as 
though nothing had happened since 
then, for the landscape was still incon- 
gruously peaceful. Only one thing be- 
trayed the existence of the Plague — ^the 
occasional wrecks seen beside the high- 
way, and the absence of traffic. An air- 
plane startlingly roared overhead 



a sharp contrast against the blue. 

But Marion was not hei’e. Court 
realized that he missed her. She was the 
perfect complement for his mind, the 
ideal assistant. There was something 
else, too, but Court subconsciously 
steered away from the thought, refusing 
to let himself realize why he missed 
Marion so profoundly. He could see her 
clearly, a slim brown-eyed girl — 

Rot ! Such thoughts wasted time, and 
there was no time to waste. Sitting be- 
side Court now, crowded uncomfortably 
in the front seat, Scipio and the huge 
Li Yang writhed uneasily. They typified 
the whole new set of factors which 
Court must integrate into the problem 
facing him. His mind began to wo¥k at 
lightning speed. Analyzing, probing, 
discarding, swiftly he went over the 
problem as he drove the car instinctive- 
ly through New Jersey. 

Scipio crawled over into the back seat 
and went to sleep. Li Yang stretched 
luxuriously, holding out his plump fin- 
gers to the car heater. 

“Great magic,” he said with satisfac- 
tion. “Not that I believe in magic, but 
the word is a handy one.” 

The sedan thundered westward. 

XV 

M^URING the two weeks of Court’s 
unconsciousness, a great deal had hap- 
pened. Many large cities, like Manhat- 
tan, had been evacuated. If many Car- 
riers had appeared at once, chaos might 
have been the result. But the Plague 
came with comparative slowness at first. 
Martial law, of course, had been de- 
clared, resulting in less indirect mor- 
tality than might have been expected. 

The refugees faced neither starvation 
nor epidemic. With well-oiled speed, the 
Federal Government had swung into 
action. All over the country, the evacu- 
ated populations of such cities as New 
York, Chicago, San Francisco, and New 
Orleans Were billeted in hospitable 
homes. 

But the danger remained. More and 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 69 



more of the carriers appeared. Shining, 
nebulous clouds of glowing fog, they 
slew by touch alone. There was no pos- 
sible protection, for even lead armor 
was not always certain. Moreover, no- 
body knew the nature of these dread 
beings. 

Court racked his brain as he furiously 
drove on. Parts of the pattern were fall- 
ing into place. Entropy, he thought, was 
the clue. The most puzzling problem was 
the apparent existence of an utterly 
alien element — ^the mysterious X. 

In a sane Universe, this could not 
exist. It could not be alien. For a time 
he pondered the Heisenberg uncertainty 
factor, but discarded it as a new idea 
came to him. __ 

The catalyst angle was perhaps the 
most logical one. Absently he reached 
into the dashboard compartment, ex- 
pecting to find cigarettes. There was a 
pack in it, nearly full. Court pressed in 
the dashboard cigarette lighter. Li Yang 
watched with interest. 

Court took the glowing lighter and 
held it to his cigarette. Abruptly he 
paused, staring at the lighter. He whis- 
tled startledly under his breath. The 
Oriental blinked in astonishment. 
“What—” 

“An idea. Just an idea. A parallel, 
like conduction. Listen, Li Yang. If you 
take a red-hot chunk of steel and put it 
next to a cold piece, what’ll happen ?” 
“The cold piece will be warmed.” 
“Yes. The heat will be transmitted. 
Only, it isn’t heat in this case. It’s X! 
X is being transmitted to living beings.” 
Court rubbed his forehead. “What is X ? 
Energy? Sure, but — I’ve got it!” He 
almost lost his grip on the wheel in his 
excitement. “I’ve got it, Li Yang! En- 
tropy, life, energy — cosmic evolution!” 
“Words,” said the Oriental, shrugging 
indifferently. “What do they mean?” 
Court began to talk slowly, carefully, 
picking his way along the new theory. 

“Evolution goes on constantly, you 
know. From the day the first amoeba 
was born, evolution kept on steadily. 
It’ll always do that, all over this Uni- 



verse, and in other ones, too. Well, 
what’s the ultimate evolution of life?” 

“To what man is it given to know 
that?” Li Yang replied fatalistically. 

“There have been lots of theories. 
Plenty of fiction-writers have specu- 
lated about it— people like Verne 
and Wells. Some of them say we’ll evolve 
into bodiless brains. Well, that isn’t 
quite logical. Rather, it doesn’t go far 
enough. Brains are made of cellular 
tissue, and therefore can die. But 
thought — life energy — is the ultimate 
form. The final evolution is toward bodi- 
less energy, life without form or shape. 
A gas, perhaps.” 

The Oriental nodded. “I think I see. 
Well?” 

Court swung the sedan around a 
curve, taking it wide to avoid an over- 
turned roadster. 

“Entropy goes on, regardless. Even- 
tually a Universe is destroyed. Matter 
itself breaks up. But this life energy 
isn’t matter. It’s left unchanged. It 
floats on through the void, like a dark 
nebula.” His eyes widened. “Perhaps 
that’s the explanation for dark nebulae, 
like the Coal Sack, for example. Well, 
that doesn’t matter. This cosmic cloud 
of life energy drifts through space. If 
it happens to reach a newly formed 
planet like Earth billions of years ago, 
life is generated in the seas, and the 
cycle starts again. But if life already 
exists — ” 

“As on Earth now?” 

“Yes. The chunk of hot steel warms 
the cold one. Only, it isn’t heat that’s 
transmitted. It’s pure life energy, the 
super-life to which we’ll evolve at the 
end of our Universe. We’re not ready 
for that yet, but it’s come of its own 
accord.” 

T I YANG said thoughtfully, “I am not 
sure I understand.” 

“Take a familiar parallel. We know 
today that there’s a hormone which 
causes growth. A hormone is a glandu- 
lar extract. If we inject an overdose of 
that into an infant, he’ll grow enormous- 



70 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



ly. But he’ll probably be an idiot, with 
little control over his huge body. He 
should have been left to grow naturally, 
for he wasn’t ready for the hormone in 
such a large dose. Neither is Earth 
ready for so large a step forward in 
evolution. But we’ve got an overdose of 
pure life energy, and it’s transforming 
human beings into another form of life.” 

“Demons,” Li Yang said quietly. 

Court smiled uncomfortably. 

“Perhaps. At least into poor devils. 
Well, that’s the answer, but it still does 
not help matters. — Here’s a town, and I 
think it has an airport.” 

The field was a flurry of brightly lit 
activity. No carriers had yet appeared 
in this New Jersey city, but the air of 
tension was inevitable. By dint of argu- 
ment, threats, pleas, and coercion. Court 
managed to charter a plane, though he 
would have no success in getting a pilot. 
Their services were difficult to obtain, 
because of the national emergency. It 
was lucky that Court knew how to fly. 

He took time to drink scalding black 
coffee at the airport restaurant, where 
curious glances were cast at his strange 
companions. 

There was little information he could 
gain from the scattered scraps of con- 
versation. No one could guess where the 
Plague might strike next. At the first 
sign of it, evacuation must take place, 
with the aid of every automobile, rail- 
road, and plane that could be pressed 
into service. 

A few local residents wandered in to 
stare curiously at the unusual activity. 
Their lives would continue in normal 
routine until the Plague actually ar- 
rived on their doorsteps. 

Refreshed, Court took his companions 
.nto the plane, a speedy gyrocraft cabin 
ship. He felt grateful that he would not ' 
have to drive by car to Wisconsin. The 
trip would have necessitated a stop for 
sleeping. But in the plane, he could 
reach his destination in six hours or so. 

Li Yang and Scipio were not startled 
by the air journey, for the golden space 
ship had accustomed them to aerial 



travel. They watched with interest the 
countryside below. There was little 
chance to talk. 

The plane swept over Chicago, a des- 
olate, evacuated metropolis. Chicago- 
ans, Court had learned, were quartered 
all over Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, 
and even Ontario. Canada, of course, 
had thrown open its Border. For days, 
crowded boats had been plying between 
Chicago and Benton Harbor in Michi- 
gan. 

The Plague had not struck Milwaukee, 
however, though transportation facili- 
ties were held in readiness there. Actu- 
ally only a few cities had been disrupted, 
and Plague deaths had been surprising- 
ly few. The real peril which not many 
knew, lay in the future, if the Plague 
spread and remained incurable. 

At Madison, Court landed and rented 
a car. 

The headlights were pale spears stab- 
bing through the gloom as the highway 
unrolled monotonously. Court was be- 
ginning to feel sleepy, but he had pur- 
chased some benzedrine sulphate in 
Madison. He gulped some of the stimu- 
lant, which refreshed him. 

In the back seat, Scipio polished his 
saber with an oiled rag he had found. 
Li Yang slept, choking and snoring, his 
head rolling ponderously in collars of 
fat. 

Now and again, Court caught sight of 
Carriers — shining blobs of radiance 
that flashed toward them and were gone. 
What would happen if the car struck 
one? Would it rush through an impalp- 
able glow, or would there be a catastro- 
phic explosion of liberated energy? 
Court’s mind felt so blurred that he 
could not think clearly. His hands ached 
and trembled on the wheel. His elbow 
joints were throbbing. The soles of his 
f^et deemed to be on fire. 

But he could not stop and rest. Home 
was not far now. 

The road was familiar to him. Wis- 
consin lay under yellow moonlight, and 
beside the road, the river flowed along 
silently. 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 71 



They topped a rise and came in sight 
of the village. It seemed unchanged. But 
as they SAvept toward it, Court noticed 
the absence of lights and movements. 

The street was completely deserted. 
From the general store, a radio crackled 
inaudibly. On the store’s porch was the 
body of a man in overalls, grotesquely 
sprawled. A dog slunk into view, stood 
frozen for a second, and then fled. 

C OURT thought with alarm of Marion 
Barton. Had she returned to the 
laboratory? Probably. But had she fled 
with the general exodus? 

Court’s heart jumped as he saw a 
shining, shapeless glow drift into view 
from around a corner. A Carrier! An- 
other of the horrors was joining the 
first. But they made no effoi't to molest 
the speeding automobile. 

Court sucked in his breath. Once he 
reached the laboratory, all the weapons 
of his scientific career lay ready to his 
fingers. Then, knowing as he now did 
the secret of the Plague, he could fight, 
perhaps destroy the plague — and finally 
Thordred. Marion could help. Her aid 
would be invaluable. 

“How much farther?” Scipio grunted 
from the back seat. 

Li Yang woke up and sleepily rubbed 
his eyes, yawning. 

“Almost there,” Court said, a queer 
breathlessness in his voice. “Just over 
this rise. Hold on!” 

A glowing shadow had loomed up 
sinisterly before the car, blocking the 
road. It was a Carrier, silent, motion- 
less, menacing. 

Court made a swift decision. He could 
drive straight at the thing. But that was 
too long a chance. Going so fast, though, 
he had little choice. 

He jammed on the brake, at the same 
time twisting the wheel. The car’s tires 
rasped and screamed as the vehicle slid 
sideward. It rolled ominously on two 
wheels, righted itself, and plunged off 
the road. 

The occupants were jolted and flung 
about as the sedan lurched across a 



plowed field. A tire blew out with a deaf- 
ening report. Desperately Court fought 
the wheel. 

Bang! Another tire had gone, but 
Court jammed his foot on the accelera- 
tor. In the rear mirror, he could see that 
the carrier was still standing in the 
same place. It was not pursuing them. 

He got the car back on the road, 
picked up speed. As it limped on, the 
Carrier was left behind. Court drew a 
deep breath. 

“Gods!” Scipio bellowed. “I almost 
stabbed myself with this blade!” 

Li Yang gurgled with amusement. 
“You are not as well padded as I. But I 
am glad our journey is almost over. It 
is, is it not. Court?” 

“Yes. This is home, and — ” 

Court’s voice died away as he jerked 
the car to a halt. They were at the huge, 
rambling structure that had housed the 
laboratory. The building was gone. It 
had been razed to the ground, in an ir- 
regular splotch of blackly charred ruin. 
A crater yawned among the debris. 

The laboratory was destroyed, and 
with it, the chance to save Earth ! 

Sick hopelessness was so strong in 
Court that for a long, dreadful moment 
his heart was numb. He seemed to be 
disassociated from his body. As if he 
were a distant onlooker, he stared at the 
sharp clarity, of the ruins under the 
Moon. His shadow stretched out before 
him on the ochre pathway. On one side 
was the taller shadow of Scipio. On the 
other was the obese dark blotch thrown 
by Li Yang’s form. The grasses rustled 
dryly in the cool night wind. 

The embers were still warm, for 
srrtoke coiled up lazily from the dying 
coals. Apparently the work of destruc- 
tion had occurred lately. Was it an ac- 
cident? 

No, Thordred must be responsible! 
Court might have expected this. When 
Thordred acquired his memory pattern, 
he had also become familiar with the 
laboratory and all its potentialities. 
Naturally he would wish to destroy it, 
lest its powers be used against him. 



72 



FANTASTIC STOBA MAGAZINE 



But why had he waited two whole 
^ weeks? Perhaps because he had not been 
able to locate the laboratory till now. 
Despite having acquired Court’s mem- 
ories, Thordred was a stranger in this 
new, complicated civilization. 

“Steve!” _ ^ 

The scream cut through the air bring- 
ing Court around sharply. It was 
Marion’s voice ! 

XVI 

]^MaRION’S cry had come from the 
hillside beyond the house. Stephen 
caught the glimpse of a white figure 
running toward him in the bright moon- 
light. 

He raced to meet the girl. She col- 
lapsed in his arms, panting and di- 
sheveled. Her hair was a tumbled mass 
of brown ringlets. For several minutes 
she could only gasp inarticulately. 

“Steve, 4hank God you’re safe! I saw 
the headlights of a car — I didn’t know it 
was you, but I thought if you were alive 
you’d come back to the lab!” 

Looking down into her eyes. Court 
felt a queer tightness in his throat. He 
interrupted in a voice that was scarcely 
audible. 

“Marion, I — I love you.” 

The girl caught her breath as she 
stared. Then suddenly she smiled with 
dazzling brilliance. 

“I’m glad,” she whispered, and 
pressed her head against Court’s chest. 
“I’m glad you’re human, after all.” 

Yes, Court thought to himself, he was 
human. For years he had refused to 
admit it. But now — a chuckle started 
behind his lips — he gloried in it ! 

The others came running up, staring 
at Marion. She drew away from Court. 

“Thordred wrecked the lab,” she ex- 
plained. “Who are these men?” 

She eyed them inquisitively. 

“No time for introductions now,” 
Court snapped. “Tell me what’s hap- 
pened. You’ve seen Thordred, or you 
wouldn’t know his name.” 

She nodded. “He came here two hours 



ago and destroyed the house. I was the 
only one who got out alive. I saw the 
ship not far away. When I started to 
run, a beam of light flashed out and I 
was paralyzed! A huge bearded man 
came running and carried me into the 
ship. He seemed to know who I was.” 

“Of course,” Court agreed. “He ac- 
quired all my memories with his damned 
machine.” 

“There was a girl called Jansaiya. 
She didn’t say anything. She just 
watched. Thordred showed, me dozens of 
men and v-mmen in the ship, asleep, 
cataleptic. He said he had captured 
them to start a new civilization. He was 
going to another planet, and he’d decid- 
ed to take me, too. Since I’d been your 
assistant, Steve, he figured I'd be a good 
assistant for him. My scientific training 
would be invaluable to him. He told me 
you were dead, that he’d killed you with 
a ray in New York.” 

“So he thinks I’m dead,” Court ob- 
served. “That means he didn’t know the 
ray only paralyzed me.” 

Marion didn’t look at him as she con- 
tinued : 

“I pretended to fall in with Thor- 
dred’s wishes, said I’d go with him. So 
he didn’t bother to put me into cata- 
lepsy. He started the motors and the 
ship began to rise. Then I — I — ” 

“Go on,” Court said gently. 

“He wasn’t watching me. I saw what 
he wasMoing at the instrument panel, 
and I jumped at it. Somehow I pushed 
all the levers and buttons before he 
grabbed me. The ship crashed. 1 wanted 
to kill Thordred, Steve, because I 
thought he’d killed you. If you were 
dead, I didn’t want to keep on living,” 
For answer. Court drew the girl 
closer. She went on talking hurriedly. 

“The ship was wrecked completely. 
It’s right over the ridge. All the pri- 
soners were killed, and Jansaiya was 
hurt. I tried to help her, but Thordred 
dragged me away. I don’t know how he 
got me out alive. He was like a madman. 
He salvaged some weapons from the 
wreck, and made me go with him. I 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 73 



think he wanted to kill me later, Steve. 
Slowly!” 

Court’s face was chalk-white. Clip- 
ping his words, he gave his orders. 

“Let’s find the ship. We may be able 
to salvage something, too. Li Yang, 
Scipio, watch out for Thordred, though 
I don’t think he’ll bother us now.” 

The four mounted -the slope. At the 
top of the ridge they halted. In the val- 
ley before them lay the vast golden 
bulk of the space ship, near a streamlet 
that made a winding ribbon of quick- 
silver between its banks. There v/as no 
sign of life near the vessel. 

They descended the slope. Suddenly 
Marion cried out softly and gripped 
Court’s arm. The four halted abruptly. 

A shining oval drifted into view from 
behind a bush. It was a Carrier, a glow- 
ing fog, fading toward its edges into 
invisibility. With more than human 
speed, it moved toward the group. 

C OURT instinctively thrust the girl 
behind him. Scipio lifted his hard 
fist in futile defiance. Then he remem- 
bered the saber and drew it. 

But there was no defense against a 
Carrier, Court knew. He opened his 
mouth to shout a comimand to flee. But 
for some reason that he could not define, 
he waited. 

The shining thing had halted. It was 
motionless, and Court was conscious of 
an intent regard. The creature was 
watching him. Why? Such a thing had 
never happened before. Always the Car- 
riers had leaped eagerly, avidly, upon 
their prey. Why did this horror wait? 

Court inexplicably felt something stir 
and move in his brain. Briefly the image 
of old Sammy, with his wrinkled brown 
face and his mop of white hair, rose up 
vividly in his mind. Behind him, Mar- 
ion’s voice whispered like a prayer : 
“Sammy!” 

The shining thing seemed to hear. It 
hesitated and drew back. Suddenly it 
turned, speeding up the slope, and 
vanished over the ridge. 

“Good God!” Court whispered 



through dry lips. “Marion, do you think 
that was — Sammy?” 

White-faced, the girl nodded. 

“Yes, Steve. And I think he knew us, 
remembered us. That’s why — ” She 
could not go on. 

“Well,” Scipio broke in roughly, “why 
do we wait? Let’s go on.” 

In silence. Court led the way down the 
slope. Presently he shivered a little, 
and Marion glanced sharply at him.' 

“Do you feel that, too?” 

“What? Wait a minute, yes. Some 
radiation.” 

“There!” Li Yang said, pointing. 

Court followed the gesture, saw the 
spot of light. 

Blazing like the heart of a blue sun, 
flaming with a fierce and terrible radi- 
ance, the light-speck glowed upon the 
hull of the ship. Instantly Court guessed 
what it was. The atomic energy that 
powered the huge motors had broken 
free. No longer prisoned by its guard- 
ing, resistant sheath, it was sending its 
powerful vibrations out like ripples 
widening on a pool. 

“Don’t go any closer!” Court clutched 
Scipio’s arm, halting him. “That’s dan- 
gerous. It can fry us to a crisp.” 

“Gods!” The Carthaginian stared. “Is 
that true? A mere glow of light?” 

In theory Court knew something of 
atomic energy, though it had never been 
achieved practically on Earth. In the 
old days, men had feared that unleashed 
atomic energy would destroy the whole 
planet, its fiery breath spreading swift- 
ly like a poisonous infection. But Court 
knew there was no danger of that. The 
rate of matter-consumption was far too 
slow. In a thousand years, the valley 
might be eaten away, but not in five 
years or five minutes. 

“Scipio!” 

The faint cry came from nearby, 
startling them. The Carthaginian’s 
hand flew to his sword as he whispered : 

“Jansaiya!” 

And again came the cry, plaintive, 
gull-sweet, infinitely sad. 

“Help me!” 



74 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



With a muttei'ed oath, Scipio whirled 
and ran. Court followed at his heels. 
A mound of bushes clustered a hun- 
dred feet away, and in its shelter lay 
Jansaiya. The fading moonlight washed 
her hair with gold. 

She lay broken, dying. 

“Jansaiya,” Scipio said tonelessly. 

He dropped to his knees beside the 
girl and lifted her in his mighty arms. 
With a tired sigh, she let her head fall 
on his bronzed shoulder. 

“My — my back.” 

After Court completed a hasty ex- 
amination, his eyes met Scipio’s. He 
did not need to speak, for the Cartha- 
ginian nodded slowly. Jansaiya’s torn 
gown and bruised limbs told how she 
had dragged herself toward safety. 

“Thordred left you?” Scipio asked in 
a queer, hoarse voice. 

The strangely beautiful green eyes 
misted with pain as she held herself 
close to Scipio’s barrel chest. The Car- 
thaginian’s gargoyle face was the color 
and hardness of granite in the moon- 
light. 

“I — I think — I might have loved you 
— warrior,” Jansaiya murmured. 

Then she sobbed restrainedly with 
unbearable agony. The golden lashes 
di-ooped to shield the sea-green eyes. 
The tender lips scarcely moved as the 
girl whispered : 

“There was not ever— any pain — in 
old Atlantis.” 

Her head drooped on his arm and was 
motionless. 

G ently Sclplo laid her in the shelter 
of the bushes. He touched her ha'ir, 
her eyes, then tenderly he touched his 
lips to those red, silent ones, from which 
even the faint hint of cruelty had gone. 

As he drew back, the last glow of the 
sinking Moon failed. The eternal dark 
accepted Jansaiya and shrouded her. 

The starlight was cold as glittering 
ice on Scipio’s savage eyes as he rose. 
He stood towering there, motionless, 
staring at nothingness. Slowly he 
turned to face the west. 



“Court,” he rumbled distantly, “you 
heard her?” 

“Yes,” Court said in a low, tense 
voice. 

“He left her to die.” 

Abruptly the Carthaginian’s face was 
that of a blood-ravening demon. The 
mighty hands flexed into talons. 

“He is mine to slay!” Scipio breathed 
through flaring nostrils. “Remember 
that — he is mine to slay!” 

But Jansaiya could no longer hear. 
She lay limp, slim and lovely and for- 
ever untouchable now, shielded from all 
hurt. She slept as a child might sleep. 

“You wish to kill me?” a harsh voice 
asked mockingly. “Well, I am waiting, 
Scipio.” 

From the shadows of the bushes, 
Thordred’s giant form rose into view. 

Startled bewilderment momentarily 
paralyzed Court. He cursed himself for 
a fool. He might have expected this, 
but finding Jansaiya had made him re- 
lax his vigilance. Glaring at Thordred, 
he stepped aside to stand in front of 
Marion. 

Li Yang’s fat yellow face was ex- 
pressionless. 

Scipio, after one hoarse oath, had 
drawn his saber. He was walking for- 
ward, his eyes burning with blood-hun- 
ger. 

Thordred’s hand dipped into his gar- 
ments, came up holding a lens-shaped 
crystal that shot forth a spear of green 
light. 

It touched Scipio. The Carthaginian 
halted in mid-stride with the saber 
lifted, a grin of fury frozen on the gar- 
goyle face. 

Court leaped for Thordred, but the 
green ray caught him, too. The life was 
drained from him in a shock of icy cold. 
He stood motionless, paralyzed as the 
ray darted aside. 

From the corner of his eye. Court saw 
Marion and Li Yang stiffen into immo- 
bility. The four stood helpless, while 
Thordred tossed his crystal from hand 
to hand and grinned. 

“You fools!” his harsh voice grated. 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 75 



“So I did not kill you that other time, 
did I, Court? Well, I shall rectify that 
now. If not for the interference of all 
of you, I should never have lost the ship. 
Yet I can still have my vengence.” He 
glanced down significantly at the lens 
he held. “You shall die slowly, in the 
utmost agony. You shall burn gradually 
as I increase the strength of the ray. 
After that, I do not know what I shall 
do. Perhaps I can build another space 
ship. The knowledge I have stolen 
should enable me to do that. But that 
comes after my revenge.” 

The bearded face was murderous in 
the moonlight. The crystal flashed a ray 
that struck Court on the chest. The 
green light turned yellow. Simultane- 
ously blinding pain racked the man. He 
smelled the odor of his own burning 
flesh. 

“You shall die,” Thordred gritted, 
“All of you! This is my vengeance.” 

XVII 

HEN Thordred placed Ardath’s 
body in the small space ship and sent it 
hurtling toward the Sun, he had thought 
the Kyrian dead. His fear of Ardath’s 
giant intellect had been so great that 
he would feel safe only when the solar 
inferno had utterly consumed it. Yet 
by making doubly sure that his former 
master would meet death, Thordred had 
committed a serious error. 

For Ardath was not dead. He awoke 
slowly, painfully, only vaguely con- 
scious of his surroundings. For a time 
he lay quietly, blinking and striving to 
understand. He kept his eyes closed 
after a single glance at a dazzling glare. 

He turned his head away from the 
bright light and reopened his eyes. His 
gaze took in his surroundings. He was 
in a space ship, a small one that was un- 
familiar to him. Through the ports in 
the walls showed the starlit blackness of 
interplanetary space. 

He was incredibly weak. He sat up, 
massaging his limbs until his numbed 
circulation was restored to normal. 



Then he rose with a great effort and 
looked around. 

Sunlight flamed through a row of 
ports. Ardath instantly realized that 
he was falling directly into the rapidly 
enlarging Sun. He saw the controls, 
sprang toward them, almost collapsing 
in his weakness. 

He examined the unfamiliar appara- 
tus, tentatively fingering the panel. 
Presently the puzzle of strangeness was 
solved in his amazingly swift mind. He 
tried a lever, then another, and knew 
that he was master of the unknown 
ship. The vital problem just now was 
to escape from the Sun’s attraction. 

Luckily he was not yet even close 
to the chromosphere. He turned the 
vessel in a wide arc. After staring 
through the ports, he aimed its nose 
at Earth. Then he locked the con- 
trols and searched for food. 

Foreseeing emergencies. Court had 
stocked the little ship well. Much of the 
food was unfamiliar to Ardath, but he 
sampled it intelligently. Brandy stimu- 
lated him and gave him strength. As he 
ate, he pondered the situation. 

How had he got here? What had 
awakened him from his cataleptic sleep ? 
The last thing he remembered was 
emerging from the laboratory in his 
own ship, to encounter Thordred’s ruth- 
less blow. The bearded giant had be- 
trayed him, but how long ago had that 
been ? How long had Ardath slept ? 

During his last period of awakening, 
he had arranged an automatic alarm 
which would react to the presence of 
any unusual mentality existing on 
Earth. Ardath wished to take no 
chances of sleeping past the lifetimes of 
geniuses. But he had not had time to 
set that alarm before Thordred stunned 
him. Everyone in the golden ship should 
have slept on until infinity, unless 
awakened by some outside force. What 
had that been? 

Again Ardath went to a port and 
studied the constellations, noting the 
changes that time had made. He com- 
puted roughly that at least twenty cen- 



76 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



turies had elapsed since his last awaken- 
ing. Perhaps, through his failure to 
set the automatic alarm, he had already 
slept through the lifetimes of innumer- 
able super-mentalities. 

Though Ardath did not know it, of 
course, he had not awakened to find 
Moses, Confucius, Socrates, Galileo, 
Newton and a dozen others. The alarm, 
had it been set, would have aroused 
him when those men appeared on Earth. 

Ardath glanced thoughtfully toward 
the Sun. Its powerful rays, unshielded 
by any atmosphere, had awakened him. 
He felt gratitude to the unknown build- 
er of this ship, who had installed trans- 
parent ports, through which the vital 
radiations had poured. If the vessel had 
been on any other course, Ardath might 
have slept on to the end of time. But 
the sun’s rays had destroyed the artifi- 
cial catalepsy. 

Ardath rose and began to search the 
little ship. Its architecture was obvious- 
ly terrestrial, the natural development 
of art-forms he had seen in ancient 
days on Earth. Moreover, the use of 
Earth metals in the construction, and 
the absence of any unusual ones, con- 
firmed this theory. 

Certain equipment that Ardath found 
interested him. The mystery of a blow- 
torch he solved without difficulty. An 
electro-magnet and vials of acids made 
him nod thoughtfully. When he meas- 
ured one of the ports carefully, he real- 
ized that it coincided exactly with the 
size and shape of the entry-ports on 
his own ship. 

The equipment indicated that the un- 
known owner of this little vessel had 
expected to find a barrier difficult to 
pass. The curious similarity of the ports 
on both ships added up to an unescapa- 
ble conclusion. Someone on Earth had 
built this ship in order to reach and 
enter Ardath’s craft. Obviously he had 
succeeded, but without the use of atomic 
energy. 

TTE HAD duplicated the alloy that 
coated the hull of the Kyrian vessel, 



yet the energy was electrical in nature. 
Ardath’s race had used electricity once, 
so many eons ago that it was mere leg- 
end when he had been born. Atomic 
energy had supplanted it. Yet Ardath 
must work with the tools at hand. 

He found himself experiencing diffi- 
culty in breathing.- The air supply, of 
course, had not bothered him during 
his cataleptic state, but now it was be- 
coming a problem. He examined the air- 
renewers and purifiers, found them sim- 
ple but effective. 

Luckily there were the necessary 
chemicals aboard the ship to renew the 
exhausted apparatus. The names on 
the containers meant nothing to Ardath, 
but the chemicals were easily recogniza- 
ble. In only one case did he find a test 
necessary. 

It would be a long journey back to 
Earth. Meanwhile, Ardath examined 
some maps and charts that had been in 
a cupboard, as well as a popular novel 
which one of the workmen who built 
the ship had left in a corner and for- 
gotten. These would be invaluable for 
learning the language. Since Ardath al- 
ready knew Latin from his last period 
of awakening, he could learn English 
without too much difficulty. He could 
even approximate the present pro- 
nunciation, once he understood the let- 
ters — like “w,” which Romans did not 
have. The luckiest find of all, after that, 
was a newspaper. 

Two problems faced Ardath — he 
must find his own ship, and he needed 
a weapon. Painstakingly he analyzed 
the situation. 

Day after day dragged on while the 
space ship fled toward Earth. The Ky- 
rian studied the charts, the book, and 
the newspaper, striving to understand. 
From a rubber stamp on the maps, he 
learned that the owner of the vessel was 
named Stephen Court, and that he lived 
in Wisconsin, near a town which Ardath 
finally located on one of the charts. 

That became his destination. The 
Kyrian’s keen understanding of psy- 
chology aided him in understanding 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 77 



what had happened during his uncon- 
sciousness. Placing himself in the re- 
spective positions of Thordred and 
Stephen Court, he applied rules of logic. 

When Court had entered the golden 
space ship and found the cataleptic 
bodies, he would naturally have tried to 
awaken them. When he awoke Thor- 
dred, what had happened? 

There were two possibilities. Thor- 
dred, Ardath realized now, wanted pow- 
er above all else. He had resented the 
Syrian’s domination. After apparently 
succeeding in killing his former master, 
he would not have been willing to obey 
Court. Rather, his lust for power would 
have been given fresh fuel. 

He and Court would have become 
either enemies or friends. In the latter 
case, Ardath now faced two opponents. 
But why should Court, having built this 
ingenious and expensive space ship, 
have been willing to destroy it by aim- 
ing it at the Sun? He would naturally 
have wished to retain it for later use. A 
logical man does not destroy valuable 
equipment, and only a logical and intel- 
ligent person could have built this ves- 
sel. 

But Thordred, on the other hand, 
would have wished the smaller ship de- 
stroyed, so that he would possess the 
only space ship on Earth. Such tactics 
would strengthen his power. Unless 
there were already other space-craft in 
existence. 

That was impossible. This one was 
obviously patterned on Ardath’s own 
vessel. A man with sufficient knowledge 
to create it would have used it, first of 
all, to visit the original ship. That 
sounded logical, though not entirely cer- 
tain. 

Court would probably have resented 
the destruction of his property. That 
indicated that he and Thordred were 
enemies. But from that conclusion, Ar- 
dath could go no further. He could only 
wait until he had reached Earth and 
visited the home of Stephen Court in 
Wisconsin. If Court lived, he would 
certainly be an ally. 



And now Ardath concentrated on 
creating a weapon. Equipment was at 
hand, and electricity. Atomic energy 
Ardath could not manufacture at pres- 
ent, but he thought it would not be 
necessary. Already he had a plan for 
a weapon in mind. 

It must be able to convey a strong 
shock, or even a fatal one, over quite 
a distance. That necessitated some con- 
ductor of the current. A jet of water — 
a thin spray, perhaps — might do the 
trick. But the use of ordinary water 
was not quite satisfactory. 

A RDATH began to experiment with 
the limited laboratory he had at 
his command. 

He worked arduously, sleeping and 
eating only when he found time, while 
the ship sped toward its destination. 

Earth grew from a star to a spinning 
globe, cloud-sheathed, and then into a 
vast concave disk that blotted out the 
starry void. Ardath found the outline 
of North America, checked it with his 
maps. Then he sent the vessel arrow- 
ing toward Lake Michigan, which was 
visible even from beyond the atmos- 
phere. 

It was night before he landed outside 
the village near Court’s home. He low- 
ered the ship silently among concealing 
trees and slipped toward the lights of 
the settlement. 

His clothing would arouse curiosity, 
he realized, but that could not be helped. 
Taking his new weapon, which was 
awkwardly bulky, he moved forward. 

Luck was with him. A youth, idling 
along the highway in a dim stretch, 
paused to stare at Ardath. The Kyrian 
took advantage of the opportunity. 
Mouthing the unfamiliar words care- 
fully, he asked : 

“Can you say where Stephen Court 
lives?” It sounded like: “Cah yoh-uh 
say vhere Stephen Coo-urt liv-es?” 

The boy blinked. “Sure. You’re a 
foreigner, ain’t you?” 

When no answer came, he went on, 
pointing. 



78 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“Right up the road here.” He gave 
explicit directions. “But I wouldn’t go 
up there if I was you. There was a fire 
up there just a little while ago, and 
folks saw some funny kind of airship 
hanging around. They think it crashed 
in the valley behind the house; but no- 
body’s gone to look. We stay away from 
Court’s place since he had a case of the 
plague there.” 

Without a word, Ardath left the lad 
and hurried on. He had understood 
most of what had been said. “A funny 
kind of airship?” Could that be the 
golden space vessel? By the gods, if it 
had crashed — 

. The ruins of the house told their own 
story. Ardath hesitated, then skirted it 
to clmb up the slope beyond the charred 
foundations. 

“The valley behind the house,” the 
boy had said. Ardath topped the ridge. 
His thin, patrician face went cold as 
marble at the sight before him. The 
ship was wrecked, he saw at a glance. 
And he saw, too, the moonlit figures of 
huge Thordred and his paralyzed pris- 
oners. 

The ray flashed out from the lens in 
Thordred's hand, and Ardath ran swift- 
ly down the slope, concealing himself 
amid the. bushes. As an odor of charred 
flesh came to his nostrils, his eyes were 
suddenly remorseless as death. 

At last he was close enough. He rose 
from the shadows and called softly : 

“Thordred !” 

The bearded giant whirled, shocked 
amazement in the amber eyes. The yel- 
low ray swung wide, out of his control. 
Simultaneously Ardath lifted the weap- 
on he held, and a thin jet of fluid shot 
from its muzzle, splashing on Thor- 
dred’s arm. The giant yelled in agony, 
and his lens fell to the ground. 

“You betrayed me, Thordred,” Ar- 
dath said emotionlessly. “It is just that 
you die.” 

He stepped forward. The huge, 
bearded figure sw^ayed and writhed in 
agony, striving to break free from the 
invisible grin that held it. Ardath’s 



foot slipped on a rounded stone. For a 
second, the liquid jet wavered from its 
mark. But swept back swiftly. 

Thordred was gone. He flung himself 
back into the shelter of the bushes. The 
crashing of underbrush told of his 
flight. 

Ardath shrugged and lowered his 
weapon. 

“He is harmless now,” he said, and 
bent to pick up the lens. Briefly he eyed 
the three m.en and the girl, still para- 
lyzed. “Scipio, Li Yang, and two stran- 
gers.” 

He made a hasty adjustment on the 
crystal, sent a blue glow sweeping out 
to bathe the four. The paralysis fled. 

“Ardath!” Li Yang said. “You came 
in good time.” 

“By the gods, yes !” Scipio roared. His 
voice went soft with regret. “Though 
not in time to save Jansaiya.” His eyes 
clouded. Lifting his saber, he plunged 
forward. “I’ll be back with Thordred’s 
head,” he promised over his shoulder, 
and vanished into the woods. 

“You — you’re Ardath?” Court asked. 

^HE burn on his chest was aching 

painfully, but it was not deep, and it 
had been automatically cauterized. He 
stared at the rescuer. The Kyrian nod- 
ded, 

“Lam Ardath. You seem to know of 
me. Are you Stephen Court ?” 

“Yes. But how did you learn Eng- 
lish ? How did vou escape from the Sun 
trap? What—” 

“Wait.” Ardath was staring down at 
the wrecked ship. “Before all else, the 
atomic energj^ must be prisoned again. 
It is” — he fumbled for the right 
word — “dangerous. To approach it 

closely means death.” 

“Lead?” Court suggested. 

When Ardath looked puzzled, he gave 
the atomic number. 

“Only a special alloy will insulate the 
rays of atomic energy. Do you see that 
container? It looks like a speck from 
here, beside the spot of light. Only that 
can hold the nower.” He frowned. “The 



A MILLION YEARS 1:0 CONQUER 79 



power must be placed in its sheath 
again. “But — ” 

“It means death,” Li Yang broke in. 
“Very well, I shall do it.” 

Court clutched the fat arm. 

“You need not sacrifice yourself.” 

Ardath’s face was expressionless as 
he went on in his painful, stilted Eng- 
lish, “Whoever goes must be quick. The 
rays kill swiftly. Hurry to the ship, 
slide the container over the little globe 
of atomic energy, and put the cover in 
place. That is all. After that, it will be 
safe to approach.” 

“Steve,” Marion said unsteadily, “let 
me go!” 

“No!” Court’s arm went around the 
girl, drawing her close. “Not you. Do 
we need to make this sacrifice, Ardath?” 

The Kyrian nodded, sorrowfully. 

“The energy will spread out till it 
touches ores. Then it will expand faster, 
until Earth itself will be destroyed.” 

There was a sudden interruption. 
From the bushes behind the group, a 
glowing nimbus of light drifted. It 
was a Carrier, but it did not approach 
the three. Instead, it sped down the 
slope, toward the ship. Ardath stared. 

“Marion, do you suppose — ” Court 
said hoarsely. 

“Maybe, Steve. If that was Sammy, 
he may have heard us.” 

They watched as the weird Carrier 
fled toward the ship. It reached the hull, 
bent over and picked up a small object 
from the ground. It made a swift mo- 
tion — and the glare of atomic energy 
vanished ! 

“He did hear us,” Court exulted. 
“Good old Sammy!” 

The light nimbus was drifting away 
toward the other side of the valley. 
Presently it was hidden from sight, 
but before that Ardath was striding 
down to the ship. 

He returned, holding in his hands an 
oval container of dark, lustrous metal. 
It was the sheath for the atomic energy. 

“We have much to talk about,” he 
said to Court. “Your language — I must 
master it better.” - 



Scipio came back, cursing and swing- 
ing his saber. His deep chest rose and 
fell as he panted. 

“Thordred got away. I could not 
catch him.” 

Court took immediate command. 

“Back to the road. There’s plenty of 
room in the car. We’ll head directly 
for Washington and make plans. I think 
you can help us against the Plague, Ar- 
dath. Your atomic energy has already 
given me an idea.” 

“The Plague?” Ardath asked. “I’ll 
help, if I can. But I am sorry you did 
not destroy Thordred, Scipio. I fear he 
will trouble us again.” 

The Carthaginian did not answer. He 
grinned unpleasantly, fingering the 
saber blade, as he followed the others 
back toward the ridge. 

XVIII 

T wo weeks later found Court hag- 
gard and red-eyed with exhaustion. He 
and Ardath, aided by Li Yang, Scipio 
and Marion, had been working day and 
night, experimenting, testing, discard- 
ing. Court’s task had been complicated 
by the difficulty of securing the Govern- 
ment’s backing. The President, though 
in favor of Court’s proposal, would not 
give his consent until the country’s fore- 
most scientists had approved. 

“They stiff don’t realize what we’re 
up against,” Court told Marion. 

The two were walking toward a huge 
white auditorium on Pennsylvania Ave- 
nue. The dome of the Capitol loomed 
against the blue sky. A number of cars 
were drawn up before the marble build- 
ing. 

“But they know what the Plague’s 
doing,” Marion said worriedly. “New 
cases every day!” 

“I know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have 
asked for as much money as I did, yet 
we’ll need it all. Small weapons aren’t 
enough. We’ve got to build the Shield 
to save Earth.” 

“Well, today’s the day,” she reminded. 
“All the scientists will be there, with 



80 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



lots of Army officials and Washington 
bigwigs.” 

Court smiled. “Yes. I hope — ” 

He turned into an alcove and picked 
up a phone. Presently he asked ; 

“Scipio? All set? Good. Be careful, 
now.” He turned back to Marion. “This 
may be dangerous, but I think it’ll do 
the trick.” 

Before long, he was on the stage of 
the auditorium, a lithe, well-built figure 
avainst a background of sable curtains. 
The room was nearly filled with scien- 
tists, uniformed Army men, politipians. 
A rustle of expectancy went through 
them as Court appeared. Without pre- 
amble he began: 

“I am going to ask you to witness — ” 
He paused as cameramen’s flashlight 
bulbs popped and glared. “All right, 
boys. Save some of your plates till 
later. You will need them. To resume, 
I am going to perform an experiment 
for you today. Most of you are already 
familiar with my proposal. I have found 
a cure for the Plague, but it is an ex- 
pensive one. On the other hand, it is the 
only possible way to save the human 
race from extinction.” 

“Bunk!” a voice yelled. “Prove it!” 

Court lifted his hand. 

“One moment. You have all read 
about Ardath. Some of you, I think, 
have seen my colleague. His strange 
history has become familiar to you. Let 
me introduce him now.” 

Ardath walked out on the platform. 
His antique clothing had been replaced 
by a well-fitting suit of light flannels, 
and his slim figure went over to stand 
beside Court. The lean, patrician face 
looked out over the audience without 
expression. 

“Fake!” a cry arose. It was echoed 
by others. 

A gray-haired man stood up. 

“If you’ve found a cure for the 
Plague, prove it. This Ardath may be 
an imposter. He probably is. He has 
nothing to do with — ” 

Ardath did not say a word, but he 
stepped forward a pace. Something in 



the look of the strange, alien eyes 
brought silence to the auditorium. In. 
the stillness. Court spoke again. 

“You know that the Plague is fatal. 
To touch a Carrier means instant death. 
There is no possible insulation. I have 
already given my theories about the 
origin of the Plague. It is sheer life 
energy, the ultimate evolution of all 
life, the residuum of some immeasura- 
bly ancient Universe that evolved into 
pure energy perhaps eons ago. This 
cosmic cloud of energy has drifted 
through the interstellar void until its 
edges infringe upon Earth. Some cata- 
lyst in our atmosphere made it potent, 
infected our life forms with this strange 
virus. What the Plague does is simply 
this — it speeds up entropy. And the evo- 
lution that takes place is abnormal, 
against nature.” 

Court paused, drew a deep breath, 
and resumed : 

“Normal evolution is slow. Mankind 
automatically adjusts to different en- 
vironment through the course of ages. 
But this is a sudden jump to the ulti- 
mate life form, which in the normal 
course of events should not exist in 
this System for billions of years. That 
disrupts the evolutionary check-and- 
balance system. Humanity is not yet 
ready for this metamorphosis. It must 
come slowly and gradually, over a period 
of millions of years. Let me sketch for 
you the future. 

“More and more of the Carriers will 
appear as Earth plunges deeper into 
the heart of the cloud of life energy. 
The Carriers will feed on those who 
were once their fellows. Eventually only 
they will exist on this planet, and even 
they will die in the end for lack of sus- 
tenance. In less than fifty years, the 
world will be a barren, dead sphere 
drifting through space. That is what it 
might have been, had we not found a 
cure!” 

T hen the Kyrian’s clipped, precise 
voice rang through the auditorium, 
“Court speaks truly. You men of this 



A MILLION ¥EAES TO CONQUER 81 



civilization are strange to me. Per- 
haps few of you believe the story of my 
origin. That does not matter. Working 
together, Court and I have discovered 
the nature of the Plague and found a 
solution. It is this: The Carriers are 
forms of life energy. They can be de- 
stroyed, but only by creating a stronger 
type of energj' v/hich will drain their 
own. Only one thing will do that — 
atomic power. A certain carrier came 
in touch with the unguarded atomic 
power in my space ship. Later, we 
searched for him, and found his body 
near the vessel. Exposure to the ter- 
rific energy had killed him.” 

Court nodded, remembering how he 
and Ardath had hunted through the 
Wisconsin hills for Sammy, and the 
burned, inhuman thing they had found 
at last. 

The Kyran went on : “Atomic power 
short-circuits the carriers, drains their 
energy. Already we have constructed 
portable weapons which are thoroughly 
satisfactory.” 

“But the life-cloud in space!” a voice 
from the audience broke in. “You can’t 
destroy that!” 

The Kyrian smiled grimly. 

“True. And more and more carriers 
will appear as we approach the nucleus 
of the cloud. But we can protect Earth, 
create a wall around it, a shell of atomic 
energy! With the right machines, we 
can transform the Heaviside Layer into 
a shield that will perfectly insulate this 
planet against the cosmic cloud. Solar 
radiation will still come through un- 
checked. But not a trace of the deadly 
life energy will be able to penetrate the 
Shield.” 

A low murmuring in the auditorium 
grew into a roar. Men rose and shouted 
questions, challenges at Ardath. A 
shield around Earth? Ridiculous! Such 
fantastic pipe-dreams belonged with 
perpetual motion and other exploded 
theories. Ardath glanced wryly at 
Court. 

“Well, I see I can’t convince them. 
Shall we—” 



Court was waving his arms, trying 
to quiet the crowd. His attempts were 
useless. Already some members of the 
audience were rising and heading for 
exits. V 

No one saw Court wave toward the 
wings. But all eyes turned to the stage 
v/hen the black curtain rustled apart. 
Simultaneously a gasp of sheer horror 
ripped from hundreds of throats. 

On the platform was — a carrier! 

A huge box of luminous metal stood 
just behind it, in which the horror had 
apparently been confined. It was open 
now, and the luminous fog that con- 
stituted the Carrier was drifting for- 
ward with purposeful intent. 

Ardath and Court had raced to one 
side of the stage. Scipio appeared, 
wheeling "sa small contrivance no larger 
than a dictaphone. A conical tube topped 
it, ending in a translucent lens. 

“Good,” Court snapped at the Car- 
thaginian. “But for God’s sake, be 
careful now!” 

The giant nodded with a flash of 
white teeth. Court turned to the para- 
lyzed audience. 

“Stay where you are ! There’s no dan- 
ger, unless you get hysterical and riot.” 

A uniformed man in the aisle shouted 
an oath and whipped out his revolver. 
He pumped bullets at the glowing crea- 
ture. Naturally there was no result. 
Court waited till the echoes had died. 

“No one will deny that this is an 
authentic Carrier. Watch!” 

The creature was at the edge of the 
platform when Scipio swung his weap- 
on to focus upon it. The result was un- 
spectacular. A ray of intense white light 
struck from the lens, and the glow sur- 
rounding the Carrier merely began to 
fade. The thing remained motionless, 
all its glory dulling. 

At last there was only something like 
a mummy collapsing, to lie motionless 
on the stage. Scipio switched off the 
light. 

“Take your seats, please,” Court said. 
“I have no more surprises for you. I 
shall welcome a committee to examine 



82 FANTASTIC STOEY MAGAZINE 



the body of this Carrier.” 

The first man to hasten down the aisle 
was a strongly built, handsome man 
with grizzled hair. He went directly to 
Court. 

“Mr. President!” Court cried. “I 
didn’t know you intended to be here, 
or I wouldn’t have — ” 

“I’m glad you did make that experi- 
ment,” said the President of the United 
States. “I doubt if the scientists will 
fail to approve your plan now.” There 
was a little twinkle in the level gray 
eyes. “Even if they do, I have authority 
under martial law to order you to build 
your Earth Shield, and to give you every 
assistance you require.” 

•The big figure turned toward the 
audience, and the President waved at 
the group of reporters. ^ 

“Put that on your front pages, boys. 
Stephen Court’s in charge. . . 

TJ^ITH silent, incredible speed. Earth 
” swung into action to fight the cos- 
mic menace. Stephen Court was in 
charge. Beside him Ardath worked, un- 
tiring, unsparing of himself. Li Yang, 
Scipio, and Marion Barton lent their 
aid. 

Stacks of trained scientists gathered 
from all over the world. Factories were 
hastily commandeered, and their ma- 
chinery altered so they could turn out 
quantities of the atomic energy potable 
guns. 

From San Francisco to New York, 
from New Orleans to Chicago, trained 
men went busily to work. Production 
of the guns was left to subordinates. 
Once provided with the plans, they ex- 
ecuted their orders with swift precision. 

Troops of militia were armed with 
the weapons and sent into Plague-in- 
fested areas. New York was cleared of 
the Carriers, and other cities as well. 
Dozens of the guns were stored in air- 
ports, ready for instant transportation 
whenever a case of the Plague was re- 
ported. Such reports were constant 
these days. Earth was approaching 
dangerously close to the nucleus of the 



cosmic cloud. 

Ardath flew to China, with Li Yang 
and two hundred famous scientists. A 
job had to be done there. Two gigantic 
towers had to be erected, on each side of 
Earth — one in the Orient, one in Amer- 
ica. Court was in charge of construct- 
ing the latter. He remained in constant 
telephonic communication with Ardath. 

Speed was essential. Every resource 
of the country was turned to building 
the Earth Shield. Business was neg- 
lected. The Government issued orders 
delegating certain jobs to certain 
groups. The people had to be fed, of 
course, but every capable man was mus- 
tered to the task for which he was best 
fitted. Factories worked day and night. 

Every other country lent its aid. Can- 
anda, England^ Germany, France, Italy, 
Japan — all forgot their imperialistic 
and trade quarrels in order to battle 
the common enemy. There was no time 
for war. 

Build the Towers! Create the Earth 
Shield ! These aims were foremost. 

Slowly the mighty obelisks rose. They 
resembled the Eiffel Tower, but were 
far taller and larger. Immense girders 
buckled huger beams together as the 
monoliths rose against the sky day by 
day. Faster, faster, the men worked. 

At night, searchlights were used. New 
roads were built and old ones widened, 
all converging on the Towers. A rail- 
road was laid to each one from the near- 
est line. 

Nearby towns found themselves in- 
credibly augmented in populations. 
Emergency barracks rose. Dapper 
physicists and 'chemists slept side by side 
with burly roustabouts and riveters. 

No thought of class, and few quarrels, 
arose. Each man knew that the Plague 
might strike his own family next. Under 
his breath he whispered : 

Build the Earth Shield! Hurry! 
Hurry!” 

Two Towers loomed at last, visible 
for many miles. Each one was topped 
with a shimmering, bright sphere of 
metal, fifty feet in diameter. From these 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 83 



globes the atomic energy would flame 
out, to encircle the planet and trans- 
form the atomic structure of the Heavi- 
side Layer into an impregnable barrier. 

XIX 

€^0URT had little time to rest. He 
had frequent reports from the Chief of 
the whom he had requested to 

track down the vani;^ed Thordred. But 
the bearded giant had disappeared with- 
out trace. His continued presence meant 
danger, however, for Thordred pos- 
sessed the knowledge he had stolen from 
the minds of both Ardath and Court. 
The dragnet searched for him vainly. 

One night Court, Scipio and Marion 
stood in the control room just Jaeneath 
the huge globe that topped the Tower. 
The task was finished. The last work- 
man had just departed in the elevator 
that led to the ground. The three stood 
quietly, staring out at the land that 
stretched far beneath tliem. Bright 
moonlight bathed everything weirdly, 
yet beautifully. 

The room was fifty feet square, a flat 
platform around which a low railing 
ran. There were no walls. Metal sup- 
ports stood up like thick columns at in- 
tervals. The globe above their head was 
hollow, else not even the tough rein- 
forced steel of the Tower could have 
supported its weight. 

They could not see the sphere. Nine 
feet ’above their heads, the ceiling was 
plated with thickness after thickness of 
Ardath’s alloy, the only thing that would 
halt the radiation of atomic energ-y. 
Court fumbled with a televisor. 

“Wish I’d had this finished weeks 
ago,” he complained. “Ardath showed 
me how to build it, but I didn’t have 
time. Let’s see — ” 

The screen ran riot with color that 
swiftly faded into a uniform gray. 

“Trying for China?’’ Marion asked, 
coming to stand close to Court. 

He nodded. 

“The other Tower. I’m getting it. 
Here it is !” 



On the screen, the fat, butter-colored 
face of Li Yang appeared. The beady 
black eyes stared. 

“Court? Hello. How is the work?” 

“All finished,” Court sighed. “We’re 
just waiting for you. Bolted the last 
connection half an hour ago.” 

“Fine!” the Oriental applauded. 
“We’ll be ready tomorrow, perhaps 
sooner. Wait a moment. Here’s Ar- 
dath. ” 

The Kyrien’s thin, ascetic face re- 
placed that of^ Li Yang. His eyes were 
red-rimmed with fatigue. 

“So you’re finished. Court,” he said. 
“Good. My workmen were not much 
slower. We’ll be done in a few hours, 
not tomorrow, Li Yang. Then we can 
turn on the power. Don’t forget” — 
Ardath’s lips thinned — “we must be 
careful. Both of us must turn on the 
switches at exactly the same moment. 
Otherwise there will be disaster. The 
atomic screen must meet just halfway 
around Earth. If you turn on your 
power too soon, your energy screen will 
smash mine back and destroy this Tower 
completely. We must be completely ac- 
curate.” 

Court glanced at an instrument panel 
near him. 

“I will. Wait a minute. Someone's 
coming up in the elevator.” 

The warning bell was ringmg. Pre- 
sently the lift rose into view. An over- 
ailed figure, half hidden under the 
weight of a wooden box, stepped out of 
the cage. 

Scipio turned from where he had been 
leaning on the rail and staring down 
into the black gulf. He peered at the 
workman. Marion’s brows drew to- 
gether in puzzement. 

“What’s this? she asked. “We 
didn’t—” 

The box fell crashing to the floor. The 
face of the man behind it was revealed. 
It was no longer bearded; clean-shaven 
now, and with the hair bleached yellow. 
Yet the arrogant mouth, hawk nose and 
the tawny amber eyes could belong to 
only one man. 



84 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Thordred ! 

His hand swept up, a lens blinking in 
it bluely. The mouth gaped in a snarl. 

“Don’t move!” His voice shook with 
mad fury. “Don’t move a muscle. I’ve 
come back!” 

Court still stood before the televisor. 
On the screen he saw Ardath’s face 
watching, immobile and intent. He 
glimpsed a heavy wrench that was lying 
forgotten on the ledge of the televisor. 
It was hidden from Thordred’s view by 
the instrument’s bulk. Court let his 
hand gently close over it. 

“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You can’t 
possibly escape.” 

Thordred laughed harshly. “No, you 
saw to that. Your police have come after 
me. If I hadn’t stolen your memories, 
I’d never have escaped them. I dis- 
guised myself as a workman and rode 
up here. Nobody stopped me. And I 
have a weapon now ! I made it, with the 
knowledge and memories I took from 
Ardath.” 

M ARION’S face was paper-white. 

Scipio stood motionless, his gigan- 
tic hands gripping the rail behind him. 

“What do you intend to do?” Court 
asked. _ 

“Kill you!” Thordred rasped. “Then 
I’ll turn on the power — I know how to 
do that — and the energy will destroy 
Ardath in his Tower. With you two 
out of the way, I can rule Earth. My 
brain, with the combined knowledge of 
yours and his, is wiser than any other in 
the world.” 

“You may do that,” Court admitted, 
warily watching for an opening, “but 
what about the Plague ?” 

“I haven’t forgotten that. The Tow- 
ers can be repaired. The Earth Shield 
can be created, even without you and 
Ardath. But then I shall rule this 
planet!” 

Softly, without moving his lips. Court 
whispered into the televisor : 

“Turn on your power, Ardath. It’ll 
destroy Thordred. We’ll go with it, but 
that’s the only way.” 



The Kyrian did not speak, but he 
shook his head slightly. Thordred moved 
forward. The blue lens in his hand 
lifted. 

“Now, he said. “Now you die!” 

Court’s muscles tensed for a hopeless 
leap. He knew he could not reach the 
man in time. His fingers tightened over 
the wrench. Scipio had not moved. His 
eyes were aglow. 

Murder-lust sprang into Thordred’s 
dark face. He aimed the crystal — 

“Thordred !” 

Ardath’s voice rang out from the tele- 
visor. Startled, Thordred involuntarily 
glanced toward the instrument. Simul- 
taneously on the screen a beam of blind- 
ing white light flashed from Ardath’s 
hand. It flamed into Thordred’s eyes, 
blinding him. 

Roaring, the giant shook his head, a 
ray of blue radiance spearing wildly 
from the lens he held. Court snatched up 
the wrench and hurled it with all his 
strength. It struck Thordred’s hand. 
The lens was hurled away, to shatter on 
the metallic floor. 

Ready to hurl himself at Thordred, 
Court was halted by Scipio’s bull voice. 
The Carthaginian roared: 

“Back, Court! He is mine — mine to 
slay !” 

No longer blinded by the ray, Thor- 
dred turned . to face this new menace. 
With the snarl of a cornered beast, he 
closed with his attacker. The mighty, 
hair-covered hands closed about Scipio’s 
throat. The Carthaginian tore them 
away, and the two men gripped each 
other about the waist. 

They reeled back and forth, each 
striving to throw the other. To and fro 
on the platform they wrestled, hundreds 
of feet above the ground. Staggering 
to the railed brink and back, Thordred 
bellowed with insane rage. His mouth 
gaped open as he sought to sink his 
teeth in Scipm’s throat. 

The Carthaginian swung his fist in a 
short arc. The power of the blow 
brought blood gushing from Thordred’s 
cheek. 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 



Court and Marion— and, on the 
screen, Ardath and Li Yang — watched 
the two Titans battle. The men were 
well matched. Thordred was the taller, 
but Scipio seemed to weigh a trifle more. 
Yet the raging, murderous frenzy that 
filled them both was exactly equal. 

Abruptly Thordred drove a foul blow 
at Scipio’s middle. The Carthaginian 
grunted, and his guard dropped for a 
moment. Instantly Thordred hurled 
himself upon his opponent. The two 
went down, Thordred on top. The hairy 
hands again sank in Scipio’s corded 
throat. 

Court sprang forward, the wrench 
again in his hand. Scipio turned his 
head slightly. His deep voice roared 
a warning: 

“Back, Court! He is mine to slay!” 

Then the iron hands of the gladiator 
from Carthage found their mark — the 



85 

“You left her to die,” Scipio whis- 
pered. 

Court knew that he spoke of Jansaiya, 
the Atlantean priestess. 

^NE last frightful effort Thordred 
made. Something snapped with a 
brittle, crackling report. Simultaneous- 
ly the giant flung himself up with one 
uncoiling motion. He stood upright, 
amber eyes glaring, breath hissing and 
rattling into his starved lungs. 

Suddenly the huge head lolled for- 
ward slackly on its broken neck. For a 
heart-beat, Thordred stood silhouetted 
against the dark sky. Then he crashed 
lifeless to the floor. 

Scipio sprang up. He heaved up the 
heavy body of Thordred and went stag- 
gering toward the railing. He flung the 
body out into the abyss, and stared after 
it with brooding eyes. 



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Will Be Published Bi-Monthly Instead of Quarterly! 

Six Big Issues a Year Instead of Four! 



throat of the savage from Earth’s 
youth. 

And they sank deep, deep! All the 
tremendous strength in Scipio’s muscles 
seemed to flow into his arms. Cords and 
knots stood out under his bronzed skin. 

Thordred’s face was suddenly gorged 
with purple. Blood stained his shaved 
chin, began trickling down. Desperately 
he strove to throttle his opponent. Aban- 
doning the effort, he released his grip 
and stabbed his fingers down at Scipio’s 
eyes. 

The Carthaginian expertly rolled his 
head, and the foul thrust missed its 
mark. 

Thordred was suddenly clawing at the 
terrible hands that shut off his breath. 
His body jerked and writhed like a 
hooked fish. His eyes were distended 
and protruding. Frantically he tried to 
tear himself free, and could not. 



“Your vengeance, Jansaiya,” he whis- 
pered. “And mine!” 

Then Scipio Agricola Africanus, the 
man from Carthage, put his head down 
on his arms. He began to weep great, 
choking sobs that ripped harshly from 
his throat. 

Court looked away in sympathy and 
walked toward the televisor screen. 
Against it Marion leaned, faint with 
reaction. Both Ardath and Li Yang 
were watching. Though the Oriental’s 
gross yellow face was immobile, his 
lacquer eyes were suddenly aglow with 
pity. 

“Ohe,” Li Yang sighed softly. ‘ Alas 
for such men as Scipio, who find neither 
thrones nor love.” 

Ardath turned when a man appeared 
behind him on the screen. After a few 
words, he faced Court. 

“The work has been done sooner than 



86 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



I expected. We can turn on the power 
now. Compare your chronometer with 
mine.” 

The two delicate time-pieces checked 
precisely. 

“At exactly eleven, throw your 
switch,” Ardath instructed. “I shall do 
the same.” 

There were ten seconds to' go — five — 
three — 

Court’s hand trembled on the switch. 

Two. One — 

Now ! 

Deafening thunder bellowed out from 
the summit of the Tower. For miles 
around, the roaring blast shattered win- 
dows and awakened sleepers to panicky 
fright. White light made the country 
bright as day. For a second, the mael- 
strom of raving light and sound con- 
tinued. Then it swiftly died. There was 
silence, save for a low humming. 

“Good !” Ardath said on the screen. 
“We timed it exactly right. In two 
minutes, watch the sky. If it lights up, 
we have succeeded.” 

With one accord. Court and Marion 
hurried to the railing. Even Scipio 
lifted his head to stare at the black sky. 

Two minutes to wait. The incredible 
barrier of electrons, the curtain of 
atomic energy, was rushing around 
Earth, spreading out from the points of 
origin in the twin Towers. 

One minute dragged by. Then, with- 
out warning, the sky turned white. The 
dim stars vanished. A curtain of pallid 
white brilliance hung over Earth, like 
a shining ivory bowl overturned upon 
the land. 

A single heart-beat it remained, then 
faded and was gone. But Court knew 
that the Earth Shield had been created. 
That barrier would forever safeguard 
mankind. 

“We’ve won!” His voice was hoarse 
with triumph. “Marion, we’ve saved 
humanity !” 

There was something inexpressibly 
tender in the girl’s eyes as she watched 
him. For now she knew that Stephen 
Court was a man whom she could love 



and cherish, not a cold, inhuman ma- 
chine. In the hour of his triumph, he 
exulted not because he had solved a ter- 
rible problem with his keen brain. Court 
rejoiced because he had saved human 
beings from horror and death. 

“Yes,” Marion said softly, “we’ve 
won, Steve. Both of us have won what 
we wanted.” 

From the metallic sphere overhead, 
invisible energy flared out, challenging 
the stars at it poured its mighty power 
into the Earth Shield. . . . 

EPILOGUE 

^NE year later, a little group stood 
on the Wisconsin hills, examining a 
huge golden space ship that loomed 
against the green slope and the summer 
sky. It had taken months to build a new 
vessel to Ardath’s specifications. But at 
last the task had been finished, the 
equipment installed, and provisions 
taken aboard. In every respect, the 
craft was a duplicate of the Kyrian 
original, save for a few new devices 
which Ardath and Court had perfected. 

Scipio, Li Y^ng and Ardath stood to- 
gether at the open air-lock, Marion and 
Court a few feet away. It was difficult 
to find words at this moment of sad 
farewell. 

“I am sorry you will not go with us, 
both of you,” Ardath said after a time. 
“Yet you may be right.” 

“You know how I feel about it,” Court 
returned. “The Plague is destroyed. It 
will never come again, thanks to the 
Earth Shield. But new dangers may 
arise. These people among whom I was 
born are my people. I must be ready to 
serve and help them. I think that was 
the reason I was given a mind evolved 
beyond my time. I can help in so many 
ways, Ardath. There is so much I can 
do to improve this world of mine. Al- 
ready, in one year, strides have been 
made. Atomic power has outlawed war. 
When I die, I want to die in a Utopia 
that I have helped to build.” 

Ardath nodded with an understand- 



A MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER 87 



ing. “I came through time to find a su- 
permind whom I could abduct to sta'rt 
a new race. Well, I have found that 
supermind — and you are wiser than I, 
Stephen Court. We are all part of some 
cosmic pattern, and this pattern works 
toward good and not evil. It builds and 
does not destroy. So I shall go on in my 
search for a race where I can find kin- 
ship and happiness. Perhaps, a thou- 
sand years from now, I shall stand be- 
side your grave. Court.” 

“I, too,” Scipio broke in. “Your world 
is a fine one, Court, and some of it I like. 
But I follow a dream. Mayhap I can 
carve out a kingdom in some distant 
future.” His face was suddenly somber. 
“I cannot stay here. Jansaiya died here, 
and that would always be an aching 
pain in my heart.” 

“Nor will I remain,” Li Yang mur- 
mured. “Perhaps it is merely curiosity 
that impels me to go on with Ardath. 
I do not know. But the unknown has a 
certain fascination, and I am anxious to 
know what will exist a million years 
from now. So farewell, and” — his mouth 
twisted grotesquely — “do not forget fat 
old Li Yang.” 

The gross figure turned hastily and 
disappeared into the ship. 

Scipio bent and touched his lips to 
Marion’s brow before he squeezed 



Court’s hand in a mighty grip. 

“The gods watch over you,” he rum- 
bled, and was gone inside. 

Now Ardath’s strange, alien eyes 
dwelt on the faces'of Marion and Court. 

“There is nothing I can say,” he whis- 
pered. “Only farewell.” 

Some indefinable bond of kinship be- 
tween minds flashed for an instant as 
Court and Ardath gazed into each 
other’s eyes. Then the Kyrian stepped 
back into the ship and the port swung 
shut. 

The vessel lifted. It rose silently and 
dwindled against t he blue , a bright 
golden ovoid that faded to a speck and 
was out of sight. It sped toward the 
orbit it would follow around Earth, per- 
haps for thousands of years, until Ar- 
dath and Scipio and Li Yang awoke to 
follow their strange destiny. 

Two figures stood close together on 
the slope. Marion and Court looked up 
until all trace of the golden ship was 
gone. 

There was only the blue sky then, and 
the green hills of Wisconsin. 

Still silent, and with the man’s arm 
holding the girPs slim form close to 
him, they turned to retrace their steps 
to the highway, where a car waited. 
There was nothing they could say, and 
no need for words had they found any. 




Curl Temple pits his slim Earth knowledge against the most perfect 
intelligence in the cosmos to save the world — and the 
woman he loves! Be sure to read — 

THE hate KANSAS 

A Novel of an Alien Invasion 

By JOSEPH J. MILLARD 



FEATURED IN THE NEXT ISSUE! 




•Second (dli 



Humanity had lost its chance on 
Earth — where could it survive? 



ance 



gTA ENERAL - OF - THE -ARMIES 
Alvin Weinburger jabbed stub- 
by fingers at the map, spearing 
the chief cities of the Cominvi^orld. The 
little circle of six tarnished stars on 
his collar glinted dully. 

“I think I can promise you,” he said, 
“that this time there will be neither re- 



Lu. lAJaitet 

^ / 

ancl 

^^ietcLer 



taliation nor recovery. We have enough 
of the V-68s to wipe them out in a 
single offensive. In fact, we are so cer- 
tain of the results that our request for 
the concurrence of the civilian authori- 



88 



SECOND 

ty may be regarded as almost a pure 
formality. Gentlemen, World War IV 
is practically over !” 

His eyes swung round the semi- 
circle. Behind him, the hatchet face of 
Chief of Staff Sir Barnaby Malcolm 
cracked into a smile, and Marechal 
Laporte’s long, gloomy moustaches vi- 
brated rather like the whiskers of a cat. 

Clifford Dayton, Chairman of the 
Civilian Authority, said quietly: “Has 
the Staff established what would be the 
physiographical and meteorological ef- 
fects of the release of this additional 
number of hydro-bombs in the region 
between Kazan and Lake Balkhash?” 

Weinburger turned toward his Chief 
of Staff. Malcolm stood up. “Undoubt- 
edly, they would be somewhat severe,” 
he said. “We are making one of the 
heaviest concentrations of hydro- 
bombs in history, and we could expect 
a certain number of volcanoes to break 
out along the line of their underground 
release. But — ” he smiled again, and 
where previously it had been charm- 
ing, it was now somewhat wolfish — 
“this will only make it the more diffi- 
cult for those of our enemies who sur- 
vive the original shock.” 

There was a little stir among the 
members of the Civilian Authority, but 
it was Dayton who spoke again ; 

“I see. Then you have no objection 
to exterminating their civilian popula- 
tion, in spite of our declarations?” 

pENERAL WEINBURGER’S face 
' ^ flushed a trifle, and he seemed to 
gather himself for a few seconds ; the 
silence was punctuated only by the 
soughing of the air-machines that sup- 
plied the general command post far 
beneath the South Dakota prairie. 
Then the General said, in the tone of 
patience one might adopt toward a 
child that was rather slow of com- 
prehension : 

“Mr. Dayton, may I point out to you 
that under the conditions of this war 
the term ‘civilian population’ is a pure- 
ly legalistic definition? Every man. 



CHANCE 89 

woman and child in the territory of the 
Western Alliance is engaged either in 
the production of war materials or in 
providing food for those who do pro- 
duce them. We have every reason to 
believe that it is not different in the 
Cominworld.” 

Sir Barnaby cut in. “Mr. Dayton is 
old enough to remember the days -of 
World War III, when the distinction 
between military and civilian popula- 
tion still had some validity. I am not 
suggesting that we abolish the wise 
provision by which the assent of the 
Civilian Authority is necessary to 
major strategic decisions, but I quite 
agree with General Weinburger when 
he says that the assent is a pure for- 
mality. In all of us, the would-be civil- 
ian has been swallowed up by military 
necessity.” 

Without answering the last part of 
this speech, Dayton said slowly : “Yes, 
I am old enough to remember World 
War III — on the civilian front. I was 
in New York when the ruins were still 
radiating and the bodies were un- 
buried. Gentlemen, have you any con- 
cept what that was like?” 

Sir Barnaby shrugged. “Not much 
worse than Chicago or Tver today, I 
fancy,” he said. 

Old Marechal Laporte made a sound 
in his throat. “Time is of the essence. 
Please to sign.” He reached over and 
his hand pushed impatiently at the 
authorization papers. 

Without appearing to see him. Day- 
ton turned. “General Weinburger and 
his Staff do not appear to have looked 
deeply into the question I first pro- 
posed. Perhaps we can enlighten him. 
Dr. Sanchez, will you have that record- 
ing made by the robot plane over the 
Andes thrown on the screen, then the 
ones from the Caucasus and from In- 
donesia ?” 

The lights snapped out, and the men 
in the command post turned to face the 
telescreen that filled one wall of the 
command post. At first nothing was 
visible but rolling clouds of smoke that 



90 FANTAS11C STORY MAGAZINE 



changed color and thinned, but never 
so much as to permit even a sight of 
ground. Then the plane that carried 
the recording apparatus dipped; an 
ominous booming came from the 
sound-track, and the watchers could 
see the long range of Andean peaks, 
one after another, some merely send- 
ing thin columns of smoke into the 
swirling overcast, some shooting up 
jets of flame in which boulders 
bounced like marbles. 

“Behold the fate of my unhappy 
continent !” said Sanchez, with a slight 
catch in his voice. 

The picture changed — not so much 
in character as in location, for the 
mountains were not quite so steep here. 
But there was the same range upon 
range of smoking mountains, and from 
the side of one a slow flow of lava was 
making its way down to quench itself 
boilingly in a sullen grey sea. 

“The Caspian end of the Caucasus,” 
explained Dr. Sanchez. 

Weinburger barked a laugh. “Ha! 
And they thought they could keep their 
war plants safe by putting them under- 
ground in the mountains 1” 

“Yes, these are the effect of hydro- 
bombs e-driven into the mountains by 
penetrating rockets, as you of the mil- 
itary have wished,” said Sanchez. 

O N THE screen the picture had 
changed again. This time the chain 
of mountains appeared to rise direct- 
ly from the sea, and at one point to 
the right of the vision a vast boiling 
and a cloud of steam indicated an un- 
derwater eruption. 

Sanchez said : “These condition are 
not individual, but everywhere — every- 
where.” 

“They are something we all know 
about,” said General Weinburger. “Is 
it your purpose to tell us that the same 
conditions will exist where the Russian 
underground cities now lie? We know 
that already, too. That is the purpose 
of our offensive.” 

“I have only to say that these vol- 



canoes increase daily the quantity of 
carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Al- 
ready our earth is almost blanketed 
in cloud. We see the sun no more.” 
Weinburger started to say some- 
thing, but Dayton held up his hand. 
“Van Zandt,” he said. “Now your re- 
cording.” 

This time there were no volcanoes 
visible on the screen, only a picture of 
ominous black mountains that turned 
and twisted as the robot plane carried 
the camera above and across them. In 
a few of the valleys lay what appeared 
to be little streaks of snow under the 
dark overcast sky. The voice of Van 
Zandt spoke: 

“This picture was made less than a 
week ago above the south polar cap. 
You gentlemen will see that it is al- 
most entirely melted, and that what is 
left of it is going rapidly. I need not 
remind you that the seaboard cities 
are already drowned out, and the 
whole Mississippi valley is flooded as 
high as St. Louis.” 

“Well, conditions in the Cominworld 
are no better,” said General Wein- 
burger, “and after our coming offen- 
sive they will be worse. Gentlemen, 
this is war and destruction, a question 
of their lives or ours. We can have no 
security as long as they exist; and I 
remind you, gentlemen, that you can- 
not have an- omelette without breaking 
eggs.” 

Dayton said : “General, the trouble is 
that too many eggs have already been 
broken. Tell him. Dr. Sanchez.” 

The South American said, soberly; 
“There is no hope whatever of a de- 
crease in the CO 2 content of the atmo- 
sphere. The volcanoes produce more; 
the cloud banks become thicker. Our 
earth is becoming a tropical planet. I 
have flown over Central America — 
only a string of green slime between 
these continents, not habitable.” 

Sir Barnaby Malcolm gave an audi- 
ble sniff. Marechal Laporte shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“This is not the only question,” said 



SECOND 

Dayton, soberly. “You gentlemen know 
very well that the Vladisoff anti-germ 
virus has wiped out all the wheat, bar- 
ley, rye, corn and oats grown above 
ground, just as the bombings have 
wiped out a third of our people — a 
third of those left after World War 
III. What Dr. Sanchez is telling you 
is that on the ti'opical planet the Earth 
has become, there is no possibility of 
recovering these resources. The only 
thing our ground will produce is tropi- 
cal growths, all lush stems and no 
grains.” 

“For ten thousand years,” said San- 
chez. 

Sir Barnaby stood up again. “An ap- 
palling prospect,” he said. “But as I 
remember, not exactly one on our 
agenda. I understand we were met to 
discuss the prospect of the V-68 offen- 
sive.” 

“That’s the reason I brought the 
matter up,” said Dayton. “The Civilian 
Authority wishes to use the V-68s for 
another purpose.” 

For a moment there was silence in 
the room. The Englishman was the 
first to speak. “May I ask what this 
other purpose is?” 

“We propose to use them to reach 
and colonize the planet Venus.” 

W EINBURGER’S face wore the ex- 
pression of a man who talks rapid- 
ly to cover the fact that he has not 
thought of the idea being presented to 
him. “Could they do it?” he asked. 
“Dr. Thierrin,” said Dayton. 

The scientist addressed put on his 
nose a black pince-nez which prompt- 
ly tilted to one side. “When I originally 
designed the V-68, it was with long-, 
range space experiment in mind,” he 
said. “With the war-head removed, 
each should carry several dozen peo- 
ple, and if they were to go as colonists, 
with no return in mind, several score. 
After all, we have attained Mars with 
weaker rockets, but alas ! it is not habit- 
able.” 

Marechal- Laporte lifted a hand. 



CHANCE 91 

“Ah, the project exposes itself!” he 
said. “Very well. Mars is not habitable ; 
but no more is Venus. I am not ignor- 
ant, my friend. It is blanketed in cloud 
and CO 2 , as Dr. Sanchez describes our 
own planet as becoming.” 

Dr. Thierrin regarded him solemnly, 
then began to fumble in a portfolio, 
talking the while. “That, my friend, is 
precisely a point on which we lack 
certainty,” he said. “A century ago, it 
was true beyond doubt. Even it was 
thought that there might be no water 
on Venus; that it was a planet of 
perpetual dust. In my younger days, 
we could make out nothing on the sur- 
face. But by accident one of our strato- 
sphere weather rockets, in making 
photographs four months ago, turns 
its camera against our sister planet. 
The results are incredible ; now I show 
them to you.” 

He extended a sheaf of photographs 
toward the three military men. 

“The upper one,” he said, “is the 
picture originally taken by our weather 
rocket; the others were taken in con- 
sequence. Observe how all the banks 
of cloud are penetrated by large, dark 
holes, by gaps of varying shape. The 
climate, the upper atmosphere of Venus 
is undergoing a radical alteration.” 

The three military men bent over the 
pictures. Marechal Laporte said : “You 
go too fast. Have you made spectro- 
scopic analysis to prove the existence 
of oxygen? Of water? Without these 
how can you say that Venus is even 
remotely habitable? The whole atmos- 
phere might be of a poisonousness most 
deadly.” 

Dr. Thierrin shook his head, his 
rather disorderly hair bobbing. “It is 
true that the clouds in our own atmos- 
phere and the destruction of the as- 
tronomical stations have prevented 
analysis. However, we know from the 
law of planetary similarity, so well 
demonstrated in the case of Mars, that 
the chances are favorable.” 

The marshal frowned. “To me, the 
demonstration — ” 



92 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



General Weinburger seemed to have 
adjusted his sights. Now he cut in. 
“Laporte, you are wasting your time,” 
he said, “in arguing the details of this 
cowardly and treasonable proposition. 
Brought down to its essentials, what 
these civilians are telling us is simply 
this: that instead of punishing the 
beasts who have brought this destruc- 
tion upon the earth, and incapacitating 
them from doing any further damage, 
we should run away and leave them in 
possession of just what they are fight- 
ing for. Mr. Dayton, members of the 
Civilian Authority, I remind you that 
your proposal requires the assent of 
the Staff. You shall never have it; 
never. My oath as an officer would be 
violated if I gave it.” 

Clifford Dayton sighed. “I was 
afraid you would take that attitude. 
General,” he said. “And therefore, not 
altogether unprepared for it.” He 
turned to one of the guards at the door. 
“Will you show in the visitors who are 
waiting in Chamber Number Six?” 
The guard snapped to attention and 
went out. Within the room there was 
an ominous silence, in which the sound 
of Dr. Thierrin fiddling with a pencil 
was distinctly audible. Then the door 
opened again and the guard stood aside 
to permit the entrance of two officers in 
the grey-green uniform of the Comin- 
world. 

Weinburger’s face turned beet-red 
and Laporte sprang to his feet, finger- 
ing his moustache. Dayton said: “In 
case you do not recognize our guests, 
gentlemen, permit me to introduce 
Agronomist Nicholas Vladisoff, of the 
University of Vilnius, holder of the 
Lysenko Banner, and Upper Physicist 
Jurevich, of the Peiping Foundation.” 

J UREVICH’S heavy features seemed 
utterly unperturbed as he took the 
chair that was placed for him. Vladis- 
off had a thin, scraggly beard, behind 
which he seemed to be smiling. 

Weinburger turned coldly to Dayton. 
“By what authority do you bring Com- 



inworld prisoners to a Council meet- 
ing?” he demanded. 

“Both these gentlemen are here un- 
der a flag of truce, and specifically for 
the purpose of discussing the flight to 
Venus,” said Dayton, calmly. 

“The Staff refuses to' consent to the 
flight,” said Weinburger, “or to hold 
any conversation with war criminals.” 
Vladisoff’s smile became overt. 
“General Weinburger is at the head of 
the Cominworld’s list of war crimi- 
nals,” he said. “But in view of the 
nature of the present discussion, our 
Central Committee has voted to waive 
that document.” 

Sir Barnaby touched the high com- 
mander’s arm. “May as well listen to 
them. Good intelligence practice.” 
Weinburger slowly sank into his seat 
again as Dayton nodded to Vladisoff, 
saying: “Will you explain?” 

The agronomist nodded. “General 
Weinburger,” he said, “when I began 
my journey here, it was as an ambas- 
sador of the Central Committee to 
demand the surrender of the Western 
Alliance. The Red Banner army has 
prepared a fleet of penetrating rockets 
capable of| finding and destroying 
every underground city of the Western 
Alliance at a single blast.” 

He paused. Sir Barnaby’s face wore 
a look of interested skepticism. Wein- 
burger said : “Damned white of you not 
to do it — if you could.” , 

“One moment. The project was not 
halted by any inability to carry it 
through, I assure you. Here are the 
calculations.” He drew several sheets 
of papers held by a clip from his 
pocket and passed them down the 
table. “I was instructed to present 
these to the members of your Civilian 
Authority as proof that we could ac- 
complish what we claimed. Before I 
could make this presentation, our geo- 
graphers determined that the world 
had become nearly uninhabitable, and 
the explosion of further concentrations 
of sub-surface hydro-bombs would ren- 
der it wholly so. The scientific mem- 



SECOND 

bers of the Central Committee there- 
fore refused to allow the firing of the 
rockets at your cities under any con- 
ditions.” 

Sir Barnaby Malcolm laughed. Vla- 
disoff regarded him with mild eyes. 
The Englishman said ; “Excuse me for 
seeming discourteous, but I find the 
picture of anyone refusing to allow old 
Marshal Mourevitch to do anything he 
wishes rather absurd.” He glanced at 
Vladisoff. 

The Russian merely blinked twice. 
“Marshal Mourevitch is no longer in 
authority,” he said. “My instructions 
were changed. I am to present you with 
these figures, and offer the Western 
Alliance a certain number of our 
rockets for joint attempts to explore 
and colonize either Venus or Mars, the 
pro tempore colonial government to be 
neither Cominworld nor Western Alli- 
ance, but simply Earthian. What I 
have learned since coming here con- 
firms this decision^’ 

pBNERAL WEINBERGER re- 
garded him steadily for a long 
minute, then swung to face Dayton. 
“Perhaps I am not very intelligent to- 
day,” he said, “but I don’t quite see 
what you expect to gain by engaging 
with these Russians in this transparent 
and treacherous trickery. I have sworn 
to defend the peoples of the Western 
Alliance against external and internal 
enemies, and by God, I shall do my 
duty.” He got up, stepped to the phone 
on a stand, and said ; “General Wein- 
burger speaking. I want an armed 
guard detail in the command post. At 
once.” 

Without paying him the slightest 
attention, Thierrin said to J urevich : 
“Your people also must have hit upon 
the plan of doubling the jet velocity 
by an induced secondary explosion.” 

“No,” said Jurevich. “Ours is a dif- 
ferent solution. We have a feed tank, 
so.” He drew an imaginary outline with 
his finger. “Into it there comes — ” 

The door opened. A lieutenant and 



CHANCE 93 

four armed soldiers came in. 

Weinburger pointed to the civilians. 
“Arrest those men,” he said. “All of 
them.” 

The lieutenant stood still. 

“Arrest those men,” Weinburger 
repeated. “It’s an order.” 

The lieutenant’s hands seemed to be 
trembling. “I’m sorry, sir,” he stam- 
mered, “but — but — he’s the Chairman.” 
Dayton said : “A little while back 
Sir Barnaby remarked that civilians 
had been swallowed up by military 
necessity. I think. General, that you 
will find the process has reached the 
end of the pendulum swing, and that 
the military have been swallowed by 
civilian necessity. You may go, lieu- 
tenant.” 

The door dosed behind the men. Sir 
Barnaby said: “If you people are go- 
ing to make peace behind our backs, it 
would seem to me more logical to try 
to save what is left of our world.” 
Vladisoff shook his head. “Our 
scientists have reached the same con- 
clusion as yours. Humanity has lost 
its chance on earth. Whether it can 
survive elsewhere — ” 

“Urgent! Priority!” suddenly blared 
the speaker beside the screen. “Atten- 
tion, Staff! Unknown objects ap- 
proaching command post, approximate 
position over northern Scotland.” The 
screen flashed suddenly and all eyes 
turned toward it. “We have a spy 
rocket up. General, and we’re watch- 
ing,” said the speaker. The picture 
showed, against the star-studded black 
of space — something that looked like 
tiny seed, and then, as the spy rocket 
rose higher, grew to a series of marbles, 
then of tennis-balls, shining along their 
edges as crescent moons where they re- 
flected the light of the sun. 

EINBURGER turned furiouly to- 
ward the Russians. “Is this some 
of your work?” he demanded. 

“No,” said Jurevich. “These are not 
Russian. I never saw anything like 
them before.” 




94 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Weinburger threw a switch. “Wein- 
burger. What are the coordinates?” 

The dark sides of the spheres began 
to twinkle with little lights, like so 
many fireflies, and then the spheres 
began to diminish in size again. 

“Our spy rocket is coming down now, 
but we’re sending another,” said the 
speaker. “The spherical objects are 
approximately three hundred fifty 
miles beyond the atmosphere, approx- 
imately two miles per second, speed 
rapidly diminishing. Commander 
Holmgren thinks they are of extra-ter- 
restrial origin.” 

“So do I,” said Dr. Thierrin, and 
Jurevich nodded, as the spy rocket’s 
picture faded into the greyness of the 
clouds that banked the earth. 

An excited babble of conversation 
broke out in the group, but Weinburger 
held up his hand and said into the 
communication box ; “Get a beam on 
them if you can.” 

“We’re setting it up now, sir. There’s 
something already coming in the radio, 
like a kind of regularly-spaced static. 
The commander thinks they’re trying 
to communicate.” 

As the second spy rocket rose, the 
spheres came into view again, arranged 
in a long triangle, like a flight of wild 
geese. “Diameter of each sphere, about 
400 meters,” announced the speaker. 
“They appear to be falling into an 
orbital course around the earth. Over 
North Atlantic . . .” The speaker 
clicked a couple of times, then another 
voice said : “Priority ! Chairman Day- 
ton.” 

Dayton stepped to the box beside 
Weinburger. “Dayton here.” 

“Alaskan outpost has a message from 
Cominworld Central Committee. Asks 
your reaction to Vladisoff proposal, 
urgent, in view of current event.” 

“Tell Alaskan outpost to signal back 
that Vladisoff and we are in full agree- 
ment,” said Dayton, and immediately 
stepped aside for Weinburger, who was 
plucking at his arm. The screen had 
gone blank. 



“Weinburger here,” the general said. 
“Have operations set up a battery of 
S-13s for radar-controlled Are on those 
spheres if they prove unfriendly.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the speaker. “They 
shot down our second spy rocket, and 
they appear to be fitted with radar 
absorbers, but they have made no at- 
tempt to attack, and they seem to be 
trying to use our beam to get a reaction 
on video.” 

“Very well. If you pick up anything, 
flash it in here.” 

Dr. Therrin said: “Whoever is oper- 
ating those spheres seems to be a high- 
ly intelligent form of life. They didn’t 
want stray rockets prowling around 
until they knew more about our pur- 
poses.” 

“Well armed, too,” remarked Jure- 
vich, a trifle grimly. 

The screen gave another series of 
flashes. “We got a picture sequence. 
Here it comes,” said the speaker. 

'T’HOSE in the room saw an outline 
of an equilateral triangle, ap- 
parently formed of narrow strips of 
metal standing on edge. An invisible 
hand placed a series of little blocks 
along each edge; then rapidly these 
detached themselves into two groups, 
one from the hypotenuse, one from the 
two sides. 

“The Pythagorean theorem,” said 
Sanchez, smiling. 

But Marechal Laporte frowned. “My 
General,” he said to Weinburger, “we 
shall never communicate with these 
beings on this level. I suggest that we 
have two or three stations flash them 
simple mathematical problems in sys- 
tems of dots and dashes.” 

“Do you hear that. Communica- 
tions?” said Weinburger. “Make it so.” 

On the screen the geometrial draw- 
ing had been replaced by one, still 
worked in metal, that evidently repre- 
sented the solar system. Out from the 
second planet toward the third arched 
a line of dots. 

“We might have guessed as much,” 



SECOND CHANCE 95 



said Dayton. “I wonder what they look 
like?” 

“They aren’t giving that away yet,” 
said Weinburger. He seemed to have 
recovered some of his poise, now that 
the problem before him had become 
one of translating a policy into execu- 
ti%^e detail. “Communications, ■what are 
you getting?” 

The box spoke metallically. “They’ve 
put out a couple of beams of their own, 
and are sending pictures accompanied 
by sound. We have the cryptographers 
on it. Some of them are meaningless, 
but we’re building up a word-bank, 
and we believe we’ll get it, sir.” 

“Report progress.” The General 
turned back to the waiting room. He 
said : “Gentlemen, in view of the fact 
that I have apparently been relieved 
as a policy-making officer, I ask you to 
determine what line we shall take to- 
ward these visitors.” 

Vladisoff cleared his throat. 

“Go ahead,” said Dayton. 

“M’m,” said the agronomist. “One 
little thing. Visitors, yes, but why so 
many? It seemed to me there were 
hundreds of those spheres. This is not 
a visit ; it is a mass movement, a 
colonization.” 

Dr. Sanchez gave a grim little laugh. 
“An irony; they choose a moment to 
colonize when earth has lost the abil- 
ity to support its own population.” 

“We can resist an invasion,” said 
Sir Barnaby. 

“We don’t know yet whether they 
intend one,” said Dayton. “In fact, we 
don’t know what they look like or what 
they can do— except that their science 
is highly — ” 

“Command post,” pronounced the 
box. “Cryptography reports the Venus- 
ians use an agglutinative language. 
They are requesting that we show them 
pictures of the surface of the planet.” 

“Can you say the same sort of thing 
to them?” said Weinburger. “Of 
course, or you couldn’t have under- 
stood. All right, send them that vol- 
cano sequence — and the pictures of the 



lower Mississippi yalley. Ask them 
their intentions. Tell them that the 
High Council of Earth wants to know.” 
He glanced at the two Rus.sians, then 
at Dayton, who nodded approvingly, 
and then swung to Vladisoff. “Will 
your Central Committee accept the 
result of our negotiation here?” 

“As a member of it, yes,” said Vla- 
disoff, “unless there is already a nego- 
tiation being carried on by other 
means.” 

“Hadn’t thought of that,” said Day- 
ton. “General, will you contact the 
Cominworld Central Committee via 
Alaska Outpost, and cut them in on 
this circuit? They may soon have to 
be our allies, and we should withhold 
nothing from them.” 

The general grunted, and seemed 
about to obj ect ; then he shrugged and 
gave the order. Nobody seemed to have 
anything more to say; Laporte shifted 
in his chair and twisted at his mou- 
staches. Then, suddenly, the box said; 
“Command post. We are ready.” 

'T'HE screen sprang into light. There 
was a series of gasps around the 
table as the members of the Council 
saw themselves looking at a humanoid 
— but ■what a humanoid! Two massive, 
pillar-like legs supported a squat, al- 
most shapeless body that seemed to be 
clad in something gleaming, like fish- 
skin. The arms were disproportionate- 
ly thin — but it was the head that really 
drew attention. It was as if all the 
features of a human face had been 
pushed to the top of the head : a pair 
of small eyes, a broad nose with nos- 
trils pointed upward, and an extra- 
ordinarily broad mouth that was open- 
ing and closing on an even row of flat 
cubic teeth. 

A series of high-pitched sounds came 
through the speaker, then cut out, and 
the voice from Communications took 
up again. “He is speaking to us. I will 
translate ; 

“. . . means of destruction. We have 
seen the pictures of the surface of 



96 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



your planet. It is— I don’t get a phrase 
in here — by our mathematicians you 
have shown us the portions of your 
surface that are least attractive to you. 
Make him go slower, Ed . . . have ob- 
served your surface for a long period. 
We know that unless there has been 
some great change, these pictures show 
places that can only be on your equa- 
tor. 

“However, we do not resent this 
deception. It is exactly because we 
hoped your planet contained such 
areas that we have come as beggars. 
They must be unsuitable for your 
species, but they would be ideal for 
ours. We ask permission to settle on 
your swamps and volcano-lands. We 
will give the necessary guarantees 
against proceeding beyond whatever 
bounds you set. 

“If you refuse us, our race will have 
lost its last chance. I think we have 
learned our lesson, but we have learned 
it too late. For listen, people of the 
third planet, who have been living in 
comfort with each other ever since we 
have observed you. We have made our 
own planet unsuitable for life. 
Through a tragic error, the two great 
— I think he says empires — of which 
our planet is composed, fell into con- 
flict with each other. They employed 
means of combat that have nearly 
stripped our atmosphere of carbon 
dioxide and of the cloud blanket which 
kept our heat from escaping into space. 



Our planet has become too terribly cold 
to support life. At the same time dis- 
eases were introduced which caused 
our food plants to turn into wholly in- 
edible hard grains. As proof of what 
we say, here is a picture of the surface 
of our planet, taken as this fleet was 
leaving it forever.” 

The strange, hippo-like humanoid 
disappeared. In his place was a picture 
of a landscape, taken from a low alti- 
tude and gradually rising. It showed 
wide patches of fields with yellow 
grain ripening in the wind; here and 
there a little grove of unfamiliar trees, 
and, a little lake. At one edge of the 
picture some building’ had tumbled into 
ruins ; the bright sunlight shone stark- 
ly on the broken walls. The viewpoint 
rose ; now it was above the clouds and 
little white cloudlets chased each other 
across the scene, almost obscuring the 
view of a river that wound gently to- 
ward a blue sea, 

“This is the state in which our planet 
is now,” said the translator’s voice. 
“There is even ice at one of the poles.” 

Once again there was a period of 
silence in the command post. Then 
General Weinburger said: “The Staff 
aproves the Venus expedition, Chair- 
man.” 

He tore up the order for the bom- 
bardment of the Cominworld cities, 
and the fragments fluttered to the 
floor. 



Barbaric and beautiful^ old and new, this galactic giant 

held a thousand ways of living . . , loving . , . dying! 




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T O THE reporters who tried to dig 
into his background Joe Malette 
would say, “I was conceived in space,” 
adding facetiously, “My mother was a 
rocket ship and my father was a cosmic 
ray. They met briefly, I am told — ” 

“But seriously, Mr. Malette — ” 

“Just Joe.” 



“Is it -true, Joe, that you’ve never 
touched foot on Earth?” 

That was the inevitable question. 
Through his boyhood Joe had dodged 
the space-riding reporters with fancier 
footwork than he displayed of late. At 
eighteen, his growing good manners 
were becoming a stumbling block over 



98 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



which his childhood arts of evasion fre- 
quently tripped up. With a polite smile 
and a not too obvious struggle for 
finesse, he glanced away from the direct 
questions whenever possible. 

“Why should I go to Earth when the 
best of Earth comes to me?” 

“How many ships have you lived on 
in your eighteen years of life in space ?” 
Joe could answer that one with more 
relish. It didn’t hit so close to the great 
secret fear which he constantly strove to 
contain. 

“Most of my life has been lived on the 
sixteen ships on the Earth-Mars run, 
but altogether I’ve made my home on 
more than forty different ships — forty- 
three, to be exact.” 

“And the story is true, is it not, about 
your being barred from landing on the 
earth at the age of three months ?” 

“So I was told ... Yes, I’ve examined 
the records, and the story has been con- 
firmed.” 

“Going from planet to planet, you 
make all your landings at the skyports, 
of course, always a few hundred miles 
out from the planet proper ?” 

“Yes.” 

“But of course you have set foot on 
some planets, haven’t you — even if not 
on Earth ? Or have you ?” 

J OE MALETTE put his glance— grown 
suddenly icy— upon the reporter. 
“Does your boss make you ask all 
these silly questions, or do you get paid 
to think them up all by yourself?” Joe 
answered. And although not pleased 
with himself over his sudden display of 
edginess that doubtless betrayed his 
vulnerability, he hurried on in a brusque 
vein. “I’m just like anyone else. There’s 
no reason to make a fuss over me just 
because I happen to have the floor and 
walls of a space ship around me instead 
of an office building. I’m a very ordinary 
human being. My heart is on the left 
side. Both of my lungs are in place. My 
esophagus leads down to my stomach. 
I don’t breathe through gills — just a 
couple of ordinary nostrils — ” 



“Thank you, Mr. Malette — Joe. I 
didn’t mean to strain your patience.” 
“Sorry,” Joe said, calming. 

“It just occurred to me, you might be 
interested in going down to the surface 
with me after we land at the skyport. I 
could show you around at a few Earth 
spots that I’m sure you’ve never seen. 
We could get our pictures taken, and 
have a few interviews.” 

“No, thank you. I’ll be very busy all 
the time I’m at the skyport. I’m shift- 
ing to another ship, and I’ll have to move 
my collections across — you know, I car- 
ry with me some prize specimens of flora 
from three planets— so I’ll be very busy 
between ships. Would you like to look 
at my collections ?” 

Joe’s mother had died en route to 
Earth from Mars, and Joe, les,s than 
three months old — born on the space 
ship — had become an orphan of space. 
If his mother’s destination had been the 
United States of America, or any of 
several other countries, Joe might have 
been allowed to enter. But the country 
for which his mother was bound had 
stiff immigration laws which forbade 
Joe’s entrance. He had no living parent 
who was a citizen of this country. 

His father, born on Mars of American 
parentage, had, gone back into the deep 
hinterlands of Mars with an expedition 
of frontiersmen — an ill-fated expedition 
from which only a few returned. Fa- 
therless, motherless, and without a 
country or a planet, Joe Malette at the 
age of three months became the charge 
of a kindly space ship steward. 

The steward was killed in a freak 
accident at one of the skyports when 
Joe was four years old. By that time 
the little lad was well-known by the 
regulars on the planetary space routes. 
They were fond of him. They had long 
since ceased to try to gain special dis- 
pensations from immigration authori- 
ties. Why, after all, should Joe be forced 
to take up life on one of the planets 
when all of his friends were men of 
space ? 

Travelers betweeu planets took a vast 



ORPHAN OF SPACE 89 



interest in J-^e’s education. His presence 
on a ship offered endless diversion, and 
his progress in mathematics and lan- 
guages was a natural source of delight 
to passengers with time on their hands. 
At the age of eight he would listen with 
wide-eyed curiosity to tales of life on 
the planets. He did his best to visualize 
what it would be lihe, walking out on a 
surface of almost unlimited walking 
space. This was not easy to envision. 
Although his eyes were full of the space- 
man’s view of the planets — for no other 
child in the whole solar system was so 
surfeited with these beautiful heavenly 
spectacles as he — nevertheless, it was 
difficult for him to think of a planet as 
more than a very, very large space ship. 
To walk on the outside of such an ob- 
ject. and to keep on walking as far as 
one cared to walk, was an idea that he 
could not fathom. Somehow, he could 
not make such a thought seem real. 

O N THE skyports, to be sure, he did 
do some walking on the outside. 
But such outside walking was always to 
be done with caution ; always within the 
protection of space-suits ; and always 
within very definitely limited areas 
which ended when one came up to the 
rails, beyond which was nothing. 

To be sure, he was also treated to 
telescopic views of the surfaces of 
Earth, or Mars, or Venus; and those 
elders, who undertook to explain how it 
was down there on the surface, would 
supplement their instructions with pic- 
tures and movies, to convey the full im- 
pression. 

Even so, deep within his subconscious 
mind, the bogey was there, refusing to 
be driven out. Walking out on the sur- 
face of a planet must be like walking 
out on the fuselage of an immense space 
ship — and one who valued his life didn’t 
walk on the outside of a space ship. 

No amount of thinking and imagin- 
ing, however earnest and intense, could 
drive the deeply rooted concepts from 
Joe’s childhood mind. Surely within 
such a great spherical ship as Earth, 



the roa'* and the vibration must be too 
powerful for human endurance . ., . But 
one does not walk within Earth — only 
on the outside ... Yet how, on the out- 
side. can one cushion himself for the 
take-off ? But Earth is never required to 
take-off — it never accelerates, it never 
retards — it just goes on cruising at a 
theoretically constant velocity, the re- 
tardation being too slight to be worth 
calculating, much less to be felt, ever! 
Those sickening periods of acceleration 
and retardation were simply never felt, 
on Earth’s surface. It was also said that 
no one, walking on the surface, experi- 
enced the slightest fear of loss of oxy- 
gen or gravitational insecurity — 

And still, the very thought of walking 
out on the open surface of the planets 
continued to prey upon the mind of Joe, 
the eight-year-old child, as the ultimate 
terror. 

Again and again he refused offers of 
friendly passengers or crewmen who 
wanted to take him down from the sky- 
ports onto the surface. By the age of 
ten, he had developed an independence 
of spirit that made him very much the 
master of his own comings and goings. 
He was perfectly adjusted in space. He 
had found a thousand ways to make 
himself useful, and no cruise considered 
him an expensive luxury — far from it. 
He more than paid his own way, now, 
wherever he went, in the services he 
offered. Already his experience in space 
was beginning to count for something. 

En route, he was quick to detect signs 
of illness in untraveled passengers, and 
the ship’s physician would allow him to 
state his own diagnosis and make his 
own best guess as to what medicines or 
treatments were desirable. He gath- 
ered a rudimentary education in chemis- 
try, medicines, and space health, and he 
found a world of interest in the studies 
of diets and the space travelers’ reac- 
tions to foods. As one of many items 
which came to-his attention, the passen- 
gers from southern Europe, who in- 
variably expressed preference for their 
own native foods, would grow excessive- 



100 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAKINE 



ly sluggish after four or five days of 
their chosen diet. He noticed that they 
would pep up with a fine return of vi- 
tality if they could be persuaded to shift 
to a diet of the luscious protein vegeta- 
bles that came from the western conti- 
nent of Venus. He passed his discovery 
on to several doctors, and was pleased 
when one of them wrote a scientific 
treatise on the subject. 

He was wary of strong drink. 
Occasionally, though rarely, he wit- 
nessed the spectacle of drunkenness. 
The behavior of an inebriated person 
was not wanted on a space ship, for 
reasons of safety as well as decorum. 
But occasionally a passenger would 
bring liquor, against the rules, and turn 
to it as an escape from the boredom of 
long travel. Such a person once per- 
suaded Joe, at the age of thirteen, to 
sample his bottled goods. It was a 
breach of faith between adult and youth 
that Joe never forgot. Long after the 
humiliation of the incident had burnt 
out, Joe’s distrust of the sporting sug- 
gestions of certain types of American 
passengers remained. 

S UCH deeply rooted distrust carried 
over into other fields of suggestion. 
The same cruel and stupid passenger, 
who had forced a sample of drunken- 
ness on him, also tried to persuade him 
to come along, down to Earth’s surface, 
to “see the town.’’ Joe’s resistance deep- 
ened. What had been a childhood fear 
now intensified into a moral stubborn- 
ness. The surface of a planet was not 
necessary to his well-adjusted existence. 
Privately, he determined that he would 
live out his life in space. 

Nevertheless, he was fascinated by 
the various Earth movies which were 
frequently shown on board during the 
long sky flights. A few stock travel 
films were standard equipment for any 
space liner, and when he was asked to 
run to the storeroom and get a film — 
anything at all — he would choose out- 
door pictures — snow covered mountains 
and the jungled tropics. 



Interested passengers would bring 
him souvenirs of the various planets 
from time to time, and he gradually ac- 
quired a small collection of plants which 
he attended with scientific care. In the 
limited space of his room, under arti- 
ficial light and atmospheric conditions, 
he created his own little green world, 
always a subject of much interest to the 
passengers. After a few failures he be- 
gan to have phenomenal success with 
the prized Venus weebl, and was able 
to give away a few ^hoots at the end of 
each voyage. Occasionally the ship’s 
table was decorated with a center-piece 
of satin red and gold Venus blossoms. 

In a single case he displayed lepidop- 
tera from Earth, and the most compara- 
ble winged specimens from Mars and 
Venus that he could procure. He missed 
no chance to bargain with passengers 
who shared such interests, who could 
be persuaded to bring him a few sou- 
venirs from nature on their return trips. 
Once, following a take-off from Mars, a 
live butterfly was found to have emerged 
from its cocoon. To the enlivenment of 
the passengers, it was allowed the free- 
dom of the ship throughout the voyage, 
fluttering about as if this were its natu- 
ral habitat. When the ship landed on 
Earth’s skyport, newsmen and camera- 
men were waiting to make the most of 
the story that had been radioed ahead, 
and Earth’s television audience was 
treated to a glimpse, in full color, of 
“the butterfly that flew from Mars to 
the Earth.’’ 

Joe had kept brief diaries from the 
time he first began to write. Through 
his teens he added to the value of these 
records by obtaining the signatures of 
important persons on board. 

His own handwriting, unhurried and 
freely ornamental, was compared by 
some of the doting passengers to shoot- 
ing stars and sv,^erving comets. They 
found delight in turning through the 
pages of his journals, discovering that 
such and such a senator or ambassador 
or king had traveled this route only a 
year or so before them and had obvi- 



ORPHAN OF SPACE Iftl 



ously been as fond of Joe Malette as 
they, judging by the inscriptions penned 
■in the journals. 

A particularly friendly official from 
Venus, on his way to Earth to clinch a 
big governmental bargain, was inspired 
to make the promise to Joe that — if his 
deal was successsful — he would bring 
back for Joe a gift unlike anything he 
had ever possessed. 

Within a few months the official made 
his promise good. He brought Joe a 
small printing press, a few fonts of type, 
and enough equipment to make possible 
the publication of a little two-column, 
four-page newspaper. Although the fac- 
simile “press” brought in various metro- 
politan newspapers, the official declared 
that Joe’s own printed journal was the 
first genuine space newspaper, written, 
printed, and circulated in space. When 
the first issue came forth, Joe, smiling 
with his thrill of success, washed the 
ink from his hands and passed out free 
copies to every one on board. 

The enjoyment of that event was 
something remarkable. Ne one aboard 
would ever forget it. 

T^VERY person on the ship found his 
own name in the paper, for Joe had 
discovered something interesting in all 
of them. The date, the hour, the ap- 
proximate position in space, all possible 
official data on the trip, were there in 
black and white, almost up to the very 
minute of publication. And less techni- 
cal, but highly colorful, was Joe’s inno- 
vation — a column of space lingo, “The 
Verbal Void.” Twenty-five e.xpressions 
coined by space voyagers were offered ; 
more would follow in subsequent edi- 
tions. 

They held a party for Joe in honor of 
Volume One, Number One. Afterward, 
he was so keyed up he couldn’t sleep — 
behaving, as he told himself, like an 
Earth man having his first deep breath 
of rarefied Martian atmosphere. 

There was always one dependable way 
of working off one’s surplus energies on 
the Red Comet liners. The architecture 



of the ship provided a space, at one end 
of the power chamber, where one could 
exercise to his heart’s content. 

All through childhood, needing an 
outlet for his pent-up energies, and 
having no other room for running and 
climbing as the normal Earth child 
must, Joe had made the most of the 
power room space from the shiny railing 
at the left, down through the square- 
walled pit, up to the shiny railing on 
the right. He had developed strong arms 
in this meager improvised gymnasium, 
and at sixteen he possessed the agility 
of a chimp. 

So, following the party, Joe retreated 
to the power room in his sweat clothing. 
He swung down over the railing, bound- 
ed back and forth through the pit, 
swung up on the other side. Hanging by 
hand or foot, fingertips or elbows, he 
played until he was thoroughly ex- 
hausted. After a shower, he fell into 
an exhausted sleep. 

By the time Joe reached his eight- 
eenth birthday, he probably knew more 
names and faces of space travelers than 
any other person in the solar system. 
By now he had had a turn at piloting, 
and this had been one of the high thrills 
of his life. But it was less social, by the 
nature of the job, than various other 
functions he had tried. As a permanent 
thing, he preferred some capacity in 
which he met and talked with the people 
on board. To the professional pilot the 
hours at the control were not the whole 
of living; they endured their quiet and 
loneliness with an eye to the in-between 
times, when they would pick up the 
thread of what to them had been normal 
life on one of the planets. 

But this was not true of Joe, for he 
did not belong to any of the planets. He 
belonged to space. 

The ship was his world. Its turnover 
of occupants was his passing society. He 
possessed no family. He seldom wrote 
letters to persons he had come to know 
on the ship. His friends would return 
now and again, and when they came 
back, they were again his world. 



102 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



His yearning for female companion- 
ship often penetrated his hours of quiet 
thought. Not often did young girls come 
aboard. They were to be seen at the 
skyports, in office jobs or in the restau- 
rants. ■ There, too, they occasionally ap- 
peared as tourists, taxiing up from 
Earth’s surface to the floating port for 
a wistful look into the big space liners. 

Occasionally he would be called upon 
to guide a party of skyport tourists 
through one of the Red Comet liners. At 
such times he would find himself pleased 
and a little bewildered by the chattering 
and giggling of the high school or col- 
lege girls in the party. Mentally he 
would compare them with certain movie 
females he had come to know by mem- 
ory from innumerable showings of cer- 
tain films. He was glad when young 
wives made the Venus or Mars tours 
with their husbands, or when families 
with teen-age girls made the voyage. It 
helped him to develop more confidence 
in their presence. He needed to get ac- 
quainted with their ways. 

It was one thing for them to exclaim 
in raptures about the marvelous ship, 
or about his journal or his collections of 
planetary specimens; it was quite an- 
other for him to talk with them of their 
own interests. Back of their laughter 
were curious little whimsies he couldn’t 
always understand. They had common 
bonds among themselves in their school 
life, their clubs and churches, movies 
and parties — all of which was foreign 
to him. 

A PPROACHING Earth on one of his 
^ voyages, he looked out at it with 
more fascination than ever before. For 
on this trip he had made the great deci- 
sion. This time he would go down. At 
last his feet were ready to walk upon 
its surface. 

Not that his old dread of the unknown 
had suddenly dissolved, for it had not. 
It spun about him like a vortex of gravi- 
tational forces, trying to hold him back. 
But cubits had been added to his stature 
since the phobia had first closed about 



him. The inner urge df the maturing 
man pounded, fiercely demanding that 
his fears be conquered and that he seek 
new experiences. 

The person who had helped him come 
\o this decision was a passenger, Pa- 
tricia Stevens, a girl about his own age. 

“I hate to see this trip »ome to an 
end, Joe you’ve been so interesting. I 
wish we could treat you, in turn.” 

Traveling with her aunt and uncle, 
she had been the life of the ship since 
the take-off from Mars. To Joe she was 
certainly the most attractive person he 
had ever encountered in his eighteen 
years. 

The invitation for him to come down 
to the Stevens home for a three-day vis- 
it may have originated with Patricia’s 
Aunt Kate. It became a campaign pro- 
moted by all three, and Patricia’s uncle, 
Douglas Stevens, being a man of im- 
portance in the world of trade, was ac- 
customed to getting whatever he set out 
to get. Among them they had discov- 
ered Joe’s secret — that he had lived 
all his life in space. 

The novelty of being the first to en- 
tertain him and show him how life was 
lived on the surface of the planet added 
the passion of eagerness to their invi- 
tation. Joe had beoome personally fond 
of all of them, and always there was the 
thought of Patricia, her dancing eyes 
and ready laughter. Breathing deeply 
in his determination to go through with 
it, he gave them the nod. 

“I’ll go,” Joe promised. “I’ll be glad 
to go.” 

He added that he’d prefer not to 
have any encounters with reporters, 
they always wanted to make such a 
fuss. This concession was readily made. 
They wanted Joe for himself, not for the 
publicity. 

“But one promise I’ll not make,” the 
buoyant uncle said with a twinkle. “1 
won’t promise we’ll limit you to three 
days.” 

“I’ll have only five days stopover, 
and I’ll need at least two at the sky- 
port.” 



ORPHAN OF SPACE 1®S 



Uncle Douglas chuckled. “Joe, you 
may like it so well, you’ll decide to spend 
a year, once you’ve made the break. I 
have offices in a big skyscraper where 
your experiences would be very useful.’’ 
Joe smiled. “No, thank you.” 

“Of course you might change your 
mind after you see how it is.” 

“Three days,” Joe said. 

They landed on the skyport, high 
above the earth. After Joe had taken 
care of his work details, they boarded 
the sky taxi that shuttled between the 
floating port and the terminal at the 
edge of the city. 

Now Earth was rising to meet them. 
Joe watched the surface widen out like 
a Venetian bloom unfolding under a mi- 
croscope. The millions of tiny parts 
spread away from sight, and the view 
of the universe was presently limited 
to a close-up of a little patch of landing 
field. 

The sky taxi came to a solid anchor 
on the surface, the passengers alighted, 
and Joe walked out upon Earth. 

Patricia and her aunt walked on one 
side of him. Uncle Douglas on the oth- 
er, all of them smiling, asking him how 
it felt. 

Joe laughed with them. “On one 
trip,” he said, “we hatched out a batch 
of little chicks and I remember how 
they acted. That’s how I feel — a little 
shaky — as if I’d just broken out of an 
egg.” 

“Now, Joe,” Aunt Kate protested, 
“that makes us out to be three mother 
hens.” 

“Well?” 

“I resent that!” Patricia said. “Any- 
way you’re much too steady on your 
feet for a newborn chick.” 

“After all, gravity is gravity. This 
is the weight I’m used to.” 

“Well, this is the real. Nothing arti- 
ficial about it.” Uncle Douglas couldn’t 
help taking a proprietary air. This was 
his world and, as a captain of industry, 
he indulged in the pardonable foible of 
seeming to own everything, from the 
grass to the giant skyscrapers towering 



above to the very gravity underfoot. 

TN A CAB they spun through dizzy 

traffic of the sort that had always fas- 
cinated Joe in the movies. As they rode 
along, he tried to look in all directions 
as fast as the sights were pointed out. 
He was ashamed of the sickening feel- 
ing of confusion that filled him, and re- 
solved not to reveal that he was verita- 
bly reeling. Tightening his nerves, he 
took in the mad jumble of impressions 
as fast as they came. 

The three days were tightly packed. 

He was shown the parks, the avenues, 
the skyscrapers, the art galleries, the 
brightly lighted theatrical district, a 
huge movie palace, a Broadway play. 

They drove him through the botan- 
nical gardens; they were guided 
through a great printing plant where 
the giant presses were running; they 
took in a museum of massive rooms 
where hundreds of thousands of objects 
were on display. 

They walked with the throngs of peo- 
ple and watched humanity stream into 
the subways at the close of the work- 
ing day. 

And all the while Joe’s eyes were wide 
with curiosity, drinking in the millions 
of images photomontaged upon his reti- 
na, his eardrums beating with the 
cacophony of civilization at its maddest 
pace. He felt the surging vibrations of 
power unlimited, he breathed in the 
amazing tumult of smells that delighted 
or sickened or bewildered. And through 
it all his three guardihns took joy and 
pride in the game of serving him their 
world. 

“It’s more concentrated than any food 
pills I ever swallowed,” Joe confessed. 

“Only the time is passing so fast,” 
Patricia wailed, “and we’ve scarcely be- 
gun!” 

It was the final evening at dinner in 
their suburban home, and Aunt Kate 
asked, “Must you go back? Your ship 
doesn’t leave for two days yet.” 

“I’ll have two full days’ work getting 
ready.” 



104 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“But you do like this world of ours?” 
Patricia had asked the question many 
times in the past three days, and with 
each answer she felt a vague uneasi- 
ness. There was something in Joe Mal- 
ette’s mind beyond her reach; some- 
thing hidden. When she sensed its 
presence, the alarm bells rang a warn- 
ing through her heart. 

“This world of yours is tremendous,” 
Joe replied, and there it was, that wist- 
fulness, that reserve, that something 
that went deeper than all this pageant 
on the surface. 

■“He’ll stay until morning, won’t you, 
Joe,” Aunt Kate said. “You can get a 
sky taxi early in the morning.” 

Joe said, “You’ve all been very won- 
derful — ” 

“Sure he’ll stay till morning,” Uncle 
Douglas said confidently. “Maybe 
longer. I’ve been thinking — excuse me. 
I’ll make that call right now.” And in 
the middle of dinner he got up and went 
to the phone. He called the skyport and 
in a moment he was talking with an offi- 
cial whose name Joe knew as he knew 
his own. 

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Grayson, I’m think- 
ing of kidnaping this young man of 
yours. . . . Yes, a job along the lines 
we discussed ... I think I can make 
the offer attractive enough ... Yes, I 
understand, but you know a year of life 
here on the surface would be a fine thing 
for him, and his background would be 
very useful . . . His preference? Oh, he 
likes it down here, no doubt of that . . . 
You think so? . . . Well, anyway, I’m 
going to talk it over with him tomor- 
row.” 

Uncle Douglas came back to the table 
smiling. 

Joe swallowed hard. “I don’t wish to 
seem ungrateful, but I only planned to 
stay three days — ” 

Uncle Douglas waved the thought 
away. “We’ll not talk about it tonight. 
Tomorrow you’ll come down to the of- 
fice with me first thing in the morning 
,and look the situation over.” 

Joe rose suddenly, and his voice was 



tight. “I’d better go, now. Excuse me.” 

“Joe!” Patricia cried. “We haven’t 
finished dinner yet!” 

“I’m sorry.” Joe sat down, embar- 
rassed. The silence was strained for a 
moment; then everyone began talking 
of other things, trying to restore the 
merriment. 

\ FTER dinner Joe wandered out onto 
the porch alone. Patricia followed 
at a little distance, and saw him stand- 
ing there, looking up into the twilight. 

“You’re going back, aren’t you,” she 
said, coming to him, barely touching 
his hand. 

“It’s my world, out there,” Joe said 
quietly. “Do you mind if I go now?” 

But guests were already coming up 
the walk. A little evening had been 
planned. If he would only stay till 
morning — 

Late that night Joe retired to his 
guest room. For several minutes he sat 
at the open window looking up into the 
star studded sky. Then he turned to his 
suitcase. 

He packed quickly. He sketched a 
brief note and left it on the dresser. He 
was sorry to walk out like this. He 
couldn’t explain it. He wouldn’t try. 
He had to go. He hoped they would for- 
give him. 

He tiptoed down the stairs and closed ' 
the door quietly behind him. He reached 
the street before he heard the voice of 
Patricia calling to him from the porch. 
He pretended not to hear and hurried 
on. There would be an hour or more of 
walking, but he knew the way. He had 
watched the street numbers and caught 
the system of directions. He hurried 
along, down the long lighted thorough- 
fare. 

A car caught up with him. 

It was Patricia, calling to him. She 
would give him a lift back to the sky 
taxi terminal. 

He got in. He tried to find words for 
an apology. 

“We’re the ones who should apolo- 
gize,” Patricia said. “We only thought 



ORPHAN OF SPACE 105 



of how much we were enjoying your 
company. But we were selfish. We didn’t 
try to understand. You’ve felt all caged 
up, haven’t you?” 

Joe’s answer was evasive. “Is that 
the way I acted? Caged?” 

“I noticed little things,” Patricia said. 
"The way your shoulders would tighten 
when we’d go down through the can- 
yons of skyscrapers. As if you felt pres- 
sure from all sides.” 

Joe smiled but made no comment. 

“And the way you’ve breathed when 
you thought no one was noticing — try- 
ing to breathe deeper — noL from any 
lack of air but from a craving for space. 
I saw it and I should have knoym. And 
I’ve noticed how you’ve missed the 
stars. You’re used to having them for 
neighbors, aren’t you? Is that it, Joe? 
Do I understand you — or is there 
more ?” 

They drove along in silence for min- 
utes while Joe groped for his own an- 
swers. 

“Have we failed you somehow, Joe?” 
Patricia asked, when his thoughts found 
no words. 

No, it wasn’t that, not by any means. 
They had all been the friendliest peop’e 
in the world, and he would never forget 
them. 

“Then what is it, Joe?” 

“I don’t exactly know. It’s nothing 
you could guess. It’s — well, as much as 
anything, it’s a terrible feeling of loss 
— of waste.” 

She didn’t understand. As they came 
to the terminal, which might have been 
the parting of the ways, he asked a 
favor. 

“Day after tomorrow,” he said to 
Patricia, “before ray ship leaves, would 
you come to the skyport? We’ll have a 
cup of coffee before I go.” 

He returned to the skyport, slept 
briefly, and flew into his work. After a 
day and a half of chores, he was ready 
for the flight. The ship, too, was ready 
and waiting for the hour of take-off. 

There was the usual bustle of excite- 
ment as the sky taxis brought up pas- 



sengers and sightseers, and the officials 
busied themselves with the final check- 
ing of details. 

Joe watched the taxis arrive with a 
curious feeling of eagerness. Perhaps 
Patricia had undergone a change of 
heart. Or something had happened to 
prevent her coming. 

But presently another taxi arrived to 
unload its gaily dressed passengers. 
Then the bright-eyed, laughing girl was 
beside him again, they were promenad- 
ing the enclosed deck of the floating 
port, they were slipping into a booth, 
ordering quick coffee, they were joking 
over little things. 

■pATRICIA grew more serious as she 
^ said suddenly, “Joe, I’m making you 
a promise. I’ll never ask you again 
whether yon like this world — the world 
down there that we live in.” A hint of 
tears came to her eyes ju.st for an in- 
stant. 

“Now, now, now!” Joe smiled. “It is 
a fair question. I was too confused the 
other night. The answers wouldn’t 
come. I couldn’t get a solid grip on my 
own feelings, somehow. But now I think 
I know.” 

“I’m not asking you, Joe.” 

“Well. I’m telling you, because it’s 
something I want to say. And you’ve 
been willing to understand.” He studied 
his coffee a moment before looking up. 
She was waitin.g, not urging him, but 
waiting. 

“Once,” he said, “a butterfly hatched 
out on the ship and stayed alive on the 
whole voyage. Through thousands of 
miles of space the passengers were fas- 
cinated bv it. Just one butterfly. It was 
a precious thing. I like things like that. 
And those plants I grov/ — less than two 
dozen of them — I know them in the same 
way that I know people. Every new 
stem and leaf and root hair is some- 
thing to watch. And my records and 
films and books — just a few carefully 
chosen books — you remember how much 
the passengers got out of them.” 

“Of course — on a trip.” 



106 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“Those books take a bad beating from 
overuse, and I have to replace them. But 
the fact is, they stand the test of space 
and time. Why ?” 

“Why?” Patricia echoed. 

“Because people put their real atten- 
tion into them. That’s my world of 
space. There’s time to explore things 
for all their meaning. Now do you see 
why I found life on the earth such a — 
a — ” 

“Waste is the word you used before. 
Waste and loss.” 

“That’s what it seemed to me. Right 
and left I was shocked — I was terrified, 
until it was all I could do to kold back 
and not blurt out the awful remarks 
that would have hurt everyone’s feel- 
ings. Those botannical gardens, for in- 
stance. We drove through acres and 
acres. How can any flower in that 
wilderness ever be singled out and ap- 
preciated ?” 

“But there are thousands of people 
to see them.” 

“Do they really see them? Possibly, 
in the same sense that they see the stars 
in the sky. . . Then there was the mu- 
seum. Do you remember all those 
mounted butterflies? Hundreds and 
hundreds. So many that they couldn’t 
be valued. The school children walked 
past, remember? They said, ‘Gee, look!’ 
and then they raced on.” 

Patricia smiled. '‘As I remember, we 
didn’t stay long either, did we?” 

“Your uncle waved at them and said, 
‘Nice, aren’t they — let’s go this way.’ 
Later we passed a record shop. The 
music came out into the street, and it 
was one of the finest voices I ever heard. 
Great music! Thrilling! Yet the 
throngs of people moved past without 
even noticing. I didn’t think I was a 
fragile person, but that hurt me. Yes — 
and it angered me.” 

“They probably caught a little of the 
music, you know, even if they didn’t 
stop. At least a snatch.” 

“A snatch.” Joe nodded. “I guess 
that’s the difference between your world 
and mine. There’s so much of every- 



thing in yours that you’re compelled to 
waste most of it. It showers off people 
like sunbeams.” 

“And like sunbeams it helps to sus- 
tain them. In time, Joe, you may come 
to like my world. Like sunshine, it’s 
generous with all the things you value. 
But I do believe this, Joe: it takes some- 
one like you to make us really appreci- 
ate — ” 

A signal suddenly sounded through 
the port. 

Joe paid the bill and caught Patricia’s 
hand, and together they streaked down 
the promenade toward the connecting 
air locks, talking animatedly as they 
went. 

Joe was glad to be going, Patricia 
knew this. But she knew, too, that their 
little talk had done them both good. His 
spirits had come up. He had said the 
words he needed to say to drop off the 
depression that her world had left over 
him. The squeeze of his hand upon hers 
was reassuring. And he spoke with feel- 
ing as he thanked her. 

“Thanks for a view of your world, 
Pat — even if I prefer my own.” 

“And thanks for giving new meaning 
to mine. But Joe!” 

“Yes?” 

“You wouldn’t want to dwell on little 
thoughts too deeply, would you? I mean 
— ” she was a bit breathless, keeping up 
with him. “I mean — suppose some girl 
should give you a good-by kiss as you 
were boarding. You wouldn’t carry it 
through thousands and thousands of 
miles, would you?” 

Joe halted abruptly, gazing into Pa- 
tricia’s radiant face. 

“If the girl was you, all the way to 
Venus.” 

He drew her into his arms lightly, 
and kissed her, once for her world and 
once for his own. 

Moments later Patricia stood alone 
at a window within the skyport and 
watched the Red Comet space ship roar 
off, its flash of fire narrowing into a 
pinpoint and curving away in the vast 
sea of stars. 



THE HUNTER 

By ALFRED COPPBL 



T he planet lay dead under a sky the 
color of ash. This was a murdered 
world — a twisted, tortured world that 
had not died with dignity. Its ruins still 
voiced a mute protest to the angry 
clouds. Its hills and valleys lay sere and 
sullen under their shroud of grey. 

“He would come here,” Grancor said 
bitterly, “Here to this depressing corpse 
of a planet. Wouldn’t you have guessed 
it?” 

Corday studied his companion's face 
in the uncertain light. Grancor’s hand- 
some features were twisted into a gri- 
mace of distaste. The old things, Cor- 
day thought, held no grace for Grancor. 
His was a methodical mind, and it 
worked along well-oiled channels, some- 
thing like this : Felti was mad. Felti had 
run away. Felti must be caught and 
taken back to the Psychoanalyzer for 
reconditioning. One, two, three. Sim- 
ple — -like that. And the fact that Felti 
had been an archeologist, a prober of 
the dim forgotten past, only upset Gran- 
cor’s mental machinery, for it meant 
that logic dictated the search for Felti 
must begin on A336-3, a jumbled, mute- 
ly protesting world that some forgotten 
race had shattered. 

“He must be here,” Corday said, “The 
Psych never makes a mistake.” 

“I know. Pure logic,” Grancor said 
sourly. 

“Felti was working on this culture 
when his paranoia became apparent. 
The Psych says he felt a sense of iden- 
tification with it.” 

“What culture?” asked Grancor, sur- 
veying the tumbled terrain and lower- 
ing sky. 



Corday smiled vaguely. It was hard 
to think of this blasted rock as ever 
having supported a culture. Yet it had. 
Almost every planet among the stars 
had done so at one time or another. 

The light was fading from the sky. 




and a sighing wind was rising. It was 
cold and filled with the acrid tang of 
radiation. Corday looked about uneasi- 
ly, his smile waning. It would not do 
to be caught out in the darkness of this 
ugly world. Felti must be somewhere 
near by, and Felti was not sane. Felti 
could kill. . . . 

“We had better be getting back to the 
ship,” he said,“ We can start searching 
in the morning.” 

Grancor shrugged. “Why wait?” 



Felti was a desperate fugitive — on a murdered world! 

107 



108 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



“There’s no use taking any chances,” 
Corday said. 

His companion’s handsome face be- 
came sombre. “I keep forgetting that 
Felti’s armed,” he said, “Perhaps we 
should be, too — ” 

Corday smiled thinly. “What for? 
Appearance? You couldn’t any more 
fire a v/eapon at a fellow creature than 
I could. We’re sane. We can’t kill. Be- 
sides, our .job is to take Felti back with 
us for reconditioning. Alive. He’s too 
valuable to waste. He knows just about 
all there is to know about our origins — 
if the Psych can dig it out of that jungle 
in his mind.” 

It was dark now, the blanket of clouds 
sooty black and oppressive. Together, 
the two hunters made their way along a 
spiny ridge toward the slender silvery 
shaft of their starship. 

And from the cover of a rubble- 
strewn valley, other eyes watched them. 

T7ELTI lay in the icy dark and planned. 

They’d come for him — just as he’d 
known they would. He was a cog in a 
vast machine, and the rest of the cogs 
couldn’t let him lose himself. That was 
the way it was, he thought. But it would 
have to be changed. He wasn’t going- 
back. He belonged here. This was his 
home. He had searched too long and too 
hard to be taken away from it now. 

There was, he found, a sort of fulfill- 
ment among these bitter ruins. It was 
this pebble in etei'nity that had sent 
Felti’s ancestors out among the stars. 
No one knew that, of course, Felti 
thought with satisfaction. It was his 
own particular secret, and no one was 
going to pry it out of his brain. This 
world was his. He belonged among 
these ruins. He felt as peace here. 

He thought of the treasures he had 
discovered. The fragments of paintings 
and sculpture. The ancient recordings 
of music and fey, lilting voices. Share 
those with all the other cogs? Felti 
smirked into the darkness. Not likely! 
They were his treasures, just as this'was 
his planet and his home. 



It would take some careful planning, 
he reflected, but the outcome would 
never be in doubt. There were two of 
them in the starship. He would kill 
them and destroy their ship as he had 
destroyed his own. Then he would have 
peace and freedom to roam among the 
ghosts of his own people. For they were 
his people, he told himself. All the mil- 
lions that had lived once on this se- 
pulchral world were his kinfolk. He felt 
no connection at all with those others 
out among the stars. The race had 
changed too much, and Felti didn’t be- 
long with the likes of those creatures in 
the starship. 

He had all the advantage, he thought 
grimly. Somehow his conditioning had 
broken down. The Psych had failed and 
he turned out just a little different to 
begin with. And then as he studied the 
ancient, forgotten cultures he had 
grown. Until now, he was very differ- 
ent indeed. The others said he was in- 
sane, but Felti knew better. It wasn’t 
insanity, really. It was a reversion to 
type. To the type that had spawned his 
race and sent it out to conquer the stars. 
To the type that had died here on this 
lonely world and been forgotten. Felti 
was like that. Not really mad at all, he 
told himself. It was only that he was 
like the ancients. He could kill. . . . 

He lay quite still in the windswept 
darkness and w'nited for the dawn. At 
dawn the intruders would come out o:^ 
the starship and begin their search. 
Then he would kill them and find peace 
again among his treasures. 

Felti let himself relax against the 
barren ground and dream of his kinfolk. 
There was still a great deal he didn’t 
know about them, but he would learn. 
He had a few of their books, some scat- 
tered fragments of their art. He would 
learn. He would find out all there was 
to know about them, for after all, they 
were the only thing that mattered now. 

He thought of how it must have been 
when the air of this world had carried 
the sound of their voices. Felti imagined 
that he walked among them, drinking in 
their warmth and aliveness. They had 



THE HUNTERS 109 



danced and quarreled and slept and 
loved. They were so different from those 
others. The schism was clear in Felti’s 
mind. None of the others understood at 
all. They didn’t understand Felti, so 
obviously they would never be able to 
understand this marvelous, sad, vain- 
glorious world of ghosts. Felti was like 
the ones in the starship — physically. He 
had two legs, two arms, two eyes. His 
body worked the same way. But there 
the similarity ceased. The difference 
was in the mind. That was the thing. 

Felti could understand the ghosts 
that peopled these sere plains and val- 
leys. He knew their greatness and their 
weakness, their transcendent glory and 
their abysmal bestiality. He felt the 
same things within himself, the one 
heightening the other. 

^HERE were the mounds that hid the 

shattered cities. Felti could relive the 
throbbing awareness of those great war- 
rens. He could feel — almost as though it 
were a physical sensation — the sense of 
triumph the ancients must have felt 
when the first great starships thundered 
outward to plant the simulacra among 
the stars. He felt, almost as in memory, 
the deep longing of those frail ones who 
had to remain behind to face the death 
that was bubbling up in the souls of 
their fellows. And then the wars. The 
others, those like the two in the starship 
could never understand that concept. 
But Felti could. The hate. The bestial 
lusts and the death-wish of a grandiose 
and proud race. It was all around him 
in the thin tang of the air, in the mourn- 
ful whisper of the wind. 

They sent us out to the stars, Felti 
thought and stayed here to die by their 
own hand. I should have been with them 
from the beginning, he thought, but 
that’s remedied now. I’m home. And 
I’ll stay, too, because I am like them. I 
can dream and kill. 

Felti stretched his steely muscles and 
lay back against a stone, his sleepless 
eyes fixed on the cloudy dark of the sky. 
He waited for the dawn. 



^HE sun lay blood-red on the eastern 

horizon when Grancor and Corday 
stepped from the starship into the chill 
morning air. The wind had ripped the 
grey overcast to tatters during the 
night, and the red sky showed through 
the clouds like a raw wound. 

“What could prompt anyone to hide 
on a barren, godforsaken rock like 
this?” Grancor said. 

Corday, leading the way down a nar- 
row trail, shrugged. “Mental derange- 
ments result in some peculiar quirks. 
If Felti’s mad — and he is if Psych says 
so — a sense of unity with this particular 
culture would bring him here.” 

They walked for a time in silence, 
looking behind them uneasily from time 
to time. Both had the unspoken feeling 
that they were being followed — steal- 
thily. 

Presently, Corday said: “We’re al- 
most to the place where the scanners 
picked up the blast mark. It might not 
be Felti’s ship that made it, but we have 
to make sure.” 

“Would he actually kill us?” asked 
Grancor. 

“Psych says so,” returned Corday. 
“Remember, he’s not sane. Something 
went wrong with his conditioning.” 

“But . . . kill — ” Grancor shook his 
head in disbelief. 

“You forget that the race was not 
always conditioned against violence, 
Grancor,” Corday said, “Legend says 
that our forebears were quite good at 
exterminating one another.” He grinned 
bleakly. “Stopping machinery was a 
specialty, I understand.” 

“Superstition,” Grancor said. 

Corday shrugged. It did good to ar- 
gue with one whose conditioning was as 
perfect as Grancor’s. Psych had done 
an A-1 job on him. 

For a long while they walked along 
the rubbled earth until at last they stood 
on the blackened patch that told of a 
starship’s landing. Corday unslung his 
analyzer and tested the soil. 

“It was Felti’s ship, all right,” he 
said. 



110 FANTASTIC STORT MAGAZINE 



Grancor was staring at an outcrop- 
ping of rock on the slope of a hillock 
some few meters distant. It was a carved 
figure of some kind. 

“Artifact,” Corday said. 

Grancor made his way up the hill and 
stood staring down at the carving. 

It was a humanoid figure, much scar- 
red and with the head missing. 

“Smaller than we,” Corday com- 
mented, kicking at the statue with a 
booted foot. 

“Yet just like us,” Grancor said. 

Corday shrugged. “There are carv- 
ings like this everywhere. The humanoid 
shape seems to be the dominant form 
on every planet with a carbon-oxygen 
ecology.” 

“Yet carbon-oxygen isn’t necessary 
to us,” Grancor mused. 

Corday shrugged again and set about 
erecting the portable scanner. Felti 
couldn’t be far away. He wanted to find 
him and be away from this depressing 
ruin of a world. . . . 

TN THE lee of a boulder Felti crouched 
A and listened to Corday and Gi-ancor. 
Grancor was sitting on one of his 
treasures, he thought thickly. And Cor- 
day was setting up a scanner. He would 
have to strike soon now. 

He could hear their voices quite 
plainly. 

“I wonder,” Grancor was saying spe- 
culatively, “Just how high up the cul- 
tural scale these particular animals 
climbed before they pulled their planet 
down around their ears ?” 

“Not far,” was Corday’s dry reply. 
“They reached an atomic age of sorts, 
I suppose. But it’s obvious to see what 
they got out of it. The whole planet’s 
hot.” 

“It must have been quite a blow-up,” 
Grancor said. 

“Unimportant, really. You can see 
that they didn’t accomplish anything of 
lasting value, or they’d still be around,” 
Corday said. 

Felti listened and felt himself grow- 
ing angry. His anger was a good feel- 



ing. They couldn’t feel anger. Or love. 
Or hate. Felti could. He was a throw- 
back and he gloried in it. All around 
him, his beloved ghosts seemed to be 
whispering. Now — now they seemed to 
be saying. Felti clutched his weapon. 
It was broken, discharged in the de- 
struction of his own starship. But it was 
long and heavy and made of steel. 

“I wonder,” Grancor’s voice said, 
“What these creatures were called . . . ?” 
He tapped the statue speculatively with 
the heel of his boot. 

In that instant Felti charged, his 
weapon high in his steel hands. All the 
ghosts of this dead world seemed to be 
shrieking inside his skull. Grancor and 
Corday were on their feet as he came, 
their perfect, inhuman faces blank. 

Felti swung the weapon like a mace, 
his voice a shrill cry of fury in the 
morning air. There was a crashing, 
tearing sound of tortured metal as the 
weapon took first Corday and then 
Grancor full in the face. They toppled 
to the earth and Felti smashed at them 
again and again. Their eye-lenses rolled 
out of the sockets and he smashed them 
to glistening shards with a steel foot. 
The weapon broke and Felti fell upon 
the prone figures, ripping them apart 
with his own powerful hands. Wires, 
cogs, electron tubes — he scattered their 
entrails like -bright gems in the red sun- 
-light. 

Presently, the ghosts stopped shriek- 
ing, and Felti tottered to his feet, Gran- 
cor’s mutilated head in his battered and 
twisted metal hands. The steel skull 
trailed wires and rained down powdered 
glass through the ripped cheek-pieces. 

“You wonder what they were called, 
these animals?” Felti muttered aloud 
into the sudden stillness. “These flesh 
and blood weaklings who spawned our 
race and sent it out to the stars while 
they stayed here to die?” 

The robot stood under the bloody sky, 
his voice a sobbing sound in the still- 
ness. 

“Men, Grancor,” he whispered, “They 
were called men. , . 



The Geiger at his waist began to click 




CK.EENHORN 



By HARRY STINE 



Oh, he'd reach Luna, all right; but there WERE 
two ways about it .. . neither of them pleasant! 



W HAT’S the matter? Scared?” Jim 
Donovan spoke sharply to the 
young pilot, Dave Newman, then turned 
to look at the lad’s father, Carl. 

Carl said nothing ; his only movement 
was a small twitch at the corner of his 
mouth. 



Donovan, owner of Frontier Space- 
ways, turned back to the young pilot. 
“This trip’s important, Dave. Scared or 
not, you’ve got to take it.” 

“I’m not scared,” Dave cut in, nerv- 
ously fumbling for a cigarette. 

“Like hell you’re not!” his father, 



111 



112 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Frontier’s Chief Pilot, cut in sharj^ly. 
“What are you scared of? I’d take that 
trip myself for the price of a beer?” 
Donovan sighed and leaned back in 
his chair. “I know you would, Carl.- I’d 
let you, but Space Code says no. You 
know damn good and well you can’t lift 
ship with that check-ticket of yours!” 
Carl Newman threw his leg over the 
arm of the chair. “I’ll ride as co-pilot, 
then; what the hell’s the difference?” 
“You want me to lose my permit? 
'We’ve got to have a pilot on that ship.” 
Donovan hunched his heavy form over 
the desk and folded his big hands on 
the blotter. “Dave, you’re the only one 
on deck here in Colorado Springs. You’ve 
got to take this trip!” 

Dave shook his head. “Not according 
to the Code. I’ve got a right to turn 
it down . . . which I’m doing!” 

“I want you to reconsider,” Donovan 
replied. 

“Thanks,” Dave said with a touch of 
sarcasm. “I still don’t want it. The 
cargo’s hotter than throat lining, and 
I don’t trust the tissue-paper shielding 
on that clunker in the hangar. It isn’t 
enough to stop a spitball, as you damn 
well know!” 

“So what?” the Chief Pilot cut in. 
“The control room is plenty safe. It’ll 
keep out any radiation short of an-N- 
bomb blast.” 

“I’m not worried about that,” his son 
came back. “It’s the pile drive. That’s 
as touchy as a sixteen-year-old gal. Re- 
member what happened to Wallin?” 

C ARL got up and walked to the win- 
dow of the operations office. The 
sun was high in the clear sky, and the 
Rampart Range formed a harsh blue 
line in the distance. The Chief Pilot did 
not like to be reminded of Wallin’s ac- 
cident ; a friendship stemming from the 
early days of Luna City isn’t easily for- 
gotten. “That wasn’t his fault,” he said 
slowly. “Bob Wallin was watching his 
gauges. It was just .... an accident.” 
“Yeah, I know. When she blows, she 
blows. There isn’t time to stop it,” Dave 



nodded. “Excitement I like, sure; but 
I want to try to stick around as long as 
possible.” 

“Why’d you become a spaceman, 
then ?” Donovan asked quickly. 

Dave threw a glance at his father’s 
back. “What else could I do?” he said 
quietly. 

Donovan leaned back and thought it 
over. Frontier was just about on the 
rocks with the new robot-manned space- 
lines taking over. Insurance rates on 
pilots and ships required by Space Code 
were high, and there was always the 
human element of error in spaceman- 
ship. Robot-controlled spaceships, an 
outgrowth of radio-controlled planes and 
guided missiles, were proving more de- 
pendable and cheaper ; and the manned- 
rocket companies were almost out on 
their ears. Fully eighty-percent of all 
interlunar cargo carried in the preced- 
ing year of 1998 had been lifted by 
robot-ships. 

Donovan had seen this coming, and 
had thought seriously of converting. 
But robot-ships cost money, and his 
capital was tied up in his present 
manned-equipment which could not be 
converted and which was worth little on 
the market. Then, too, being a lunar 
pioneer himself, he was surrounded by 
old and familiar friends in his company, 
and was close to something he knew and 
loved. To Donovan, watching a robot- 
ship blast for Luna did not have that 
certain something that watching the old, 
slow-lifting piloted rockets had. 

So the Chief hung on and managed to 
keep his biggest customers through 
sheer good will. The going was get- 
ting tougher, though, and now General 
Atomics, his biggest and oldest cus- 
tomer, wanted a crash-priority trip. 
That required a pilot. 

Three years ago, Carl would have 
done it. Carl Newman was a man who 
could do anything with a spaceship ; 
space was his trade and his life. But 
spacemen grow old rapidly. Lifting at 
three to six gravities does things to the 
human heart after a time. The Bureau 



GREENHORN 113 



of Space Commerce had jerked the rug 
out from under the Chief Pilot by calling 
in his full ticket and issuing him the 
check-ticket which allowed him to ride 
only as check or co-pilot. 

“What in the name of Luna is wrong 
with you ?” Carl asked his son. “There’s 
no reason why you shouldn’t take this 
trip. Right now you’re a better pilot 
than I ever was ; I never had the benefit 
of five years’ technical education. You’re 
just scared, and you know it!” 

Dave got up off the edge of the desk. 
“Okay, so T’m scared, and I know it !” 
“What’s scared you ?” Donovan asked 
quietly. “You know the insides, of a 
spaceship the way a blind man knows 
his house.” 

“Sure. I know the" whole works . . . 
but when I get one out there . . . well, 
on my last trip, the jet lining burned 
out . . .” Dave began. 

“Yeah, I know,” Carl threw back. 
“You kicked Number Four Jet loose on 
your third braking ellipse and I talked 
you in. So what? All in a day’s work!” 
“Well, making that landing with one 
jet gone and on manual controls . . . 
frankly, it scared the hell out of me,” 
Dave finally admitted. “When I got out 
of the ship and on solid ground again, 
I was about ready to quit. . . .” 

“But you didn’t,” his father observed. 
“I don’t think you will. Son, you don’t 
lack guts; you’re just a little green, 
that’s all.” 

“Yeah, it’s okay to say that, but . . . 
Aw ... I dunno. I’m kind of mixed up.” 
Dave got up and headed for the door. 
“I’ll be back. Going after a cup of cof- 
fee . . .” 

^ARL looked after him as the door 
^ closed. The Chief Pilot seemed very 
calm about it all, but Donovan got up 
and started to pace the office. “Damn 
it!” he snorted, blowing smoke. “What 
am I going to do now?” 

Carl lit a cigarette and dropped into 
a chair. “I wouldn’t worry about him. 
He’ll do it, all right. He just thinks 
he’s been in some tough spots. He’s had 



his formal education, but he’s still got a 
lot to learn.” 

“Learn? Who the hell is going to 
teach him?” 

Carl looked quietly at his burning 
cigarette. “Who taught me? Or you?” 
Bob Keller, the radio operator, had 
been listening to the conversation with 
one ear from the communications-room. 
He looked up from the spaceship radio 
he was working on. “You can teach a 
guy everything about a radio, but he 
can’t work it unless he plugs it in.” 
Donovan’s tread shook the floor. “In 
the meantime, General Atomics is on 
my neck! They want a crash priority, 
extra-schedule trip on that stuff! If I 
don’t get it through. I’m liable to lose 
the whole account!” 

“What’s the score?” the Chief Pilot 
asked. “What’s GA building out there 
on Luna?” 

Donovan sat down again and snubbed 
out his cigar. “A solar power station.” 
“You mean they finally got that stuff 
to work?” 

“I guess so. They’ve been working on 
it for years, ever since some character 
stumbled onto the principle working 
with improved photo-cells. It worked 
fine above the ionosphere, but they 
couldn’t get the power back to Terra. 
A guy named Tomlinson worked out a 
decent system of beaming power re- 
cently, so now GA is setting up a station 
on Luna and getting set to shoot the 
power to Terra on a Tomlinson beam.” 
Carl whistled. “They’ll be running 
spaceships off the body heat of the pilot 
next ! How did they manage this power- 
beaming?” 

“If we both knew matrix algebra, 
luminescent chemistry and advanced 
high-frequency theory, I might be able 
to explain it to you,” Donovan replied, 
lighting a fresh cigar. “As it is, I don’t 
understand it and can’t explain it.” 
“Why do they need radioactives for a 
solar power station?” Carl asked. 

Donovan shrugged. “I don’t know. 
But GA wants that cargo . . . right now 
or sooner!” 



114 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



The door slammed and a pudgy little 
man walked to the maintenance desk. 
He rolled a cigarette, twisted the end, 
and stuck it in his mouth. “What's 
wrong with our young Buck Rogers?” 
he asked. “I seen him heading for Ulcer 
Gulch looking like he lost his wad in a 
poker game. Didn’t even say ‘howdy’ 
to me.” 

“My heart bleeds for you!” Carl 
snapped. 

“None of your damn business what’s 
wrong with him!” Donovan boomed. 
“Pete, I want the Frontier Girl ready to 
go on an hour’s notice. And stand by to 
load cargo at any time.” 

“Who’s lifting her?” Pete asked. 

“Dave maybe. . . .” 

Pete nodded. “I get it. Damn these 
pilots! Can’t get along with ’em ... or 
without ’em!” He disappeared into the 
hangar. 

“Just like women !” Keller added. 

T he visor buzzed. Donovan snapped 
forward in his chair and flicked the 
switch. The face of Frank Matson, dis- 
trict manager of General Atomics, ap- 
peared on the screen. “Hello. Donovan. 
We’re ready to ship the hot stuff over to 
you if you’re set to go.” 

“Send it over,” Donovan replied. 
“You got a pilot yet?” 

“I’ll have one,” Donovan told him and 
cut off. He turned in his swivel chair to 
face the Chief Pilot. “Carl, you got any 
supernumeraries in town you can call 
up ... in case?” 

Carl shook his head. “Listen, Jim, I 
wouldn’t trust any of the free-lance 
jerks around this town! If they were 
any good at all, they’d have regular 
jobs!” 

“I don’t give a damn !” the big Irish- 
man shot back. “If your son and heir 
chickens-out, we’ll have to have some- 
body !” 

“He’ll take the trip. He’s been acting 
like a little kid ... and it hasn’t been 
too many years since I walloped the tar 
out of him. I can do it again . . . and 
will!” 



“You won’t have to,” Dave cut in as 
he closed the door behind him. He 
walked to Donovan’s desk. “Chief, I’ll 
take the trip!” 

“Good !” 

“With one stipulation,” the young 
pilot added. 

“Wait a minute, Newman!” Donovan 
glared at him. “We’ve fooled around 
long enough! Will you or will you not 
take this trip? Yes or no?” 

“Yeah ... if Dad will ride the co-pilot 
couch.” 

Carl whirled. “Haven’t you got the 
guts to take it yourself?” he asked 
quickly. 

“Frankly, no,” Dave replied without 
hesitation. “If I’m going to lift a hot 
load, I’ll need you along . . .” 

“To hold your hand?” his father cut 
in. 

“Sure. You’ve got the experience. I 
haven’t.” 

“Keller!” Donovan bellow. “Make out 
a flight plan for the Frontier Girl! New- 
man and Newman, pilots! Shot it over 
to Space Control for clearance!” 

Keller went to the files and dug out 
the ship and pilot cards for the flight- 
plan printer. 

“The stuff will be here shortly,” Don- 
ovan told the pair. “You guys go get 
ready. I’ll call the medical check station 
down at the Bureau and tell them you’ll 
be there in twenty minutes!” 

Carl looked at his son, then jerked 
his head toward the locker room. “Well 
. . . come on!” 

T he DOCTOR shook his head as he 
unstrapped the armband from Carl’s 
elbow. He jotted the blood-pressure 
readings down on the form. 

“What’s the matter, doc ?” 

“It’s a wonder you’ve still got even a 
check-ticket,” the medico told him, re- 
placing the instrument in the cabinet. 
“Your blood-pressure’s higher than it 
should be, and your heart isn’t in the 
best of shape.” 

Carl grinned and patted his chest. 
“Skippy pump. About ten-thousand 



GREENHORN 115 



hours in free-flight and under g’s.” 

The doc nodded. “Reaction time index 
dowm point-four. It looks like your 
nerves are shot to hell. You’re not good 
for many more trips, Newman. It’s 
liable to kill you.” 

“Got to make this trip, doc.” 

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” He 
scribbled on the form. “I don’t want to 
clear you, but I will. You haven’t got 
many trips left. Better start looking 
around. . . .” 

The Chief Pilot waved him off. “Yeah, 
yeah. sure. I’ll retire and raise hamsters 
somewhere.” Carl looked cautiously 
ai’ound. Dave was still take his check 
in another room. “Doc, I want you to 
tape my gut. That may help.” 

“Not much. Your trouble is in your 
heart." 

“I still want tape.” Carl persisted. 
“And listen, do me a favor. Give me my 
med clearance card, but don’t send the 
report up to the Bureau until this eve- 
ning.” 

The doctor was busy tearing tape. “It 
should go right up so it can be filed with 
your ship clearance.” 

Carl helped the doc with the tape. 
“It doesn't have to.” 

The doc sighed. “I guess not. I’ll get 
busy and let it slip my mind.” 

“Thanks. Listen, don’t tell anybody, 
will you?” 

The doc looked at him and shrugged. 
“Get over there and sit down on that 
table,” he indicated, picking up a roll 
of gauze. 

Car] entered the Frontier office just 
as Pete came in from the line with a 
Geiger. The rotund little maintenance 
man set it gingerly on his desk and 
wiped his brow. “Wowie! I wouldn’t 
touch that stuff with an eleven-foot pole. 
It really wrapped this counter up. Bent 
the indicator around the pin like an in- 
tegral sign!” 

Carl stepped to the operations desk 
and began filling out a company form. 
Donovan was busy too, but looked up as 
Dave entered. “Phagh!” the big man 
snorted. “Paperwork ! When the weight 



of the paper equals the weight of the 
ship, it’s cleared to lift! Med check 
okay, Dave?” 

Dave nodded. “Sure. How about you. 
Dad? What did the docs say?” 

Carl didn’t look up. “Hell, I’m 
healthy ! Each time, those sawbones 
look a little harder, but they haven’t 
found anything yet! Hey, you young 
punk, get over here and help me with 
this form! I’m not going to do every- 
thing.” 

Pete flipped another form onto the 
desk in front of Donovan. “Frontier 
Girl’s all ready to go.” 

The typer in the communications- 
shack took off with a rattle. “Here 
comes your clearance from control,” 
Keller remarked. 

Carl shoved the form over to Dave, 
moved quickly to the shack and checked 
the clearance word by word as it came 
out. 

“Ten minutes,” Keller warned. 

“Get on your pogo sticks!” Donovan 
yelled to the two pilots in the locker 
room. 

Carl swept through the office and 
picked up his ship papers as he passed 
Donovan’s desk. Dave was right behind 
him, moving quietly and slowly. The 
Chief Pilot stopped at the door to the 
radio shack. “Goodbye, Sparksie. We’ll 
send you a stereo-card!” 

“I’ll keep Channel C open in case you 
guys get lonesome and want to talk to 
somebody,” Keller replied. “Get mov- 
ing! Nine minutes.” 

Pete accompanied the two up the ele- 
vator and into the hatch. He checked 
everything again as the pilots climbed 
into the acceleration couches and 
strapped in. “Want me to tuck you in?” 
Pete asked, everything checked. 

“No! Get the hell out of here! We’ll 
see you next week,” Carl snapped as 
Keller’s bored, “Five minutes,” sounded 
in his earphones. 

Pete dropped through the hatch and 
shut the lock behind him. 

Carl looked at his son. “Still scared ?” 



116 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Dave was trying hard to concentrate 
on his panel. He nodded numbly, then 
asked, “You want to lift her?” 

Carl shook his head. “That’s your 
job. I’ll keep tabs on radar, power, and 
the Geigers. You fly her!” 

“Three minutes.” 

“Check list!” Carl barked. Dave 
quickly checked items as Carl called 
them off. 

“Keep your eyes on those Geigers,” 
Dave said when they had finished. He 
primed the firing circuit. “If we can get 
into free-fall, we’re comparatively safe. 
We’ll damp the pile after that.” 

“Shut up and don’t worry! Stand by 
tojift ship!” 

“One minute!” 

Carl took his eyes off the instruments 
for a second and glanced at his son. 
The air in the ship was cool, but great 
beads of sweat stood out on the young 
pilot’s face as he poised his fingers over 
the firing controls. 

“Four . . . three . . . two . , . one . . . 
Frontier Girl clear!” 

Carl kicked four switches in rapid 
succession. “Power ready ! Fire One and 
Four !” 

The Frontier Girl came alive and 
reached for the sky. 

T^AVE strained against the accelera- 
^ tion, trying to keep his eyes focused 
on the instruments. He watched the 
gyro correct the minute variations in 
the ship’s trajectory. The ship rammed 
past the speed of sound and the beat 
of the jets faded to a monotonous vibra- 
tion in the ship. “No backing out now,” 
Dave reminded himself. He wondered 
whether his father was watching the 
Geigers. With great effort, he turned 
his head to look at Carl. The older man 
was crushed into his acceleration couch, 
his features distorted under the more 
than five-gravity acceleration. His eyes 
were closed and he seemed to be strain- 
ing in every muscle. 

“Dad! You okay?” Dave grunted 
over the intercom. 

No answer. 



The Frontier Girl blasted for little 
better than two-hundred-ten seconds, 
then the autos cut her jets and she went 
into free-fall. The first few seconds of 
free-flight were always a shock. Dave 
felt his weight drop to zero. He breathed 
deeply for a moment, then called in the 
silence, “What’s the power reading on 
Number Four, Dad?” 

Getting no answer, he unstrapped, 
grabbed a brace, and turned on his side. 
“Dad! Answer me!” 

Carl lay quietly in his couch. His arm 
floated limply off the edge. He was 
breathing shallowly. 

“Great Space!” Dave whispered. 
Ignoring the nylon ropes strung about 
the cabin for use in movement, he 
pushed off and stopped himself by his 
father’s couch. He grabbed Carl’s arm; 
it was cold and clammy. Quickly, he 
tried to find the pulse, and had trouble 
locating it. When he did find it, it was 
thin and thready, fluttering slightly. 

“Cripes!” He’s gone into acceleration 
shock on me!” Dave gasped, panicky. 
His dad was on the way out unless some- 
thing was done. Spaceman’s first aid 
began to come back to him now. “He’s 
losing fluids into his own tissues! Got 
to get fluids into him ; plasma . . . blood 
. . . anything!” 

There was no plasma in the medical 
kit. Dave searched frantically through 
the contents. “Saline solution! That’ll 
hold him temporarily!” 

He had a hard time trying to fill the 
large hypo. . Little air bubbles kept 
breaking up in the solution and would 
not come out because of lack of gravity. 
He did manage finally, and gave his fa- 
ther a big dose of physiological salt solu- 
tion in the vein. He was just pushing 
off to get some hot coffee when the 
radiation alarm went off in his ear. 

Hastily securing a blanket over his 
father, he floated to the power panel 
and checked. The Geiger needle was ap- 
proaching the red. He realized if it ever 
got there, the radiation level for the 
operation of the power pile would be 
above the safe limit. He* realized he 



GREENHORN 117 



hadn’t damped the pile yet. 

Back in the cargo hold, the radio- 
actives were admitting a steady flow of 
gammas and free neutrons. Farther 
back and separated only by a thin layer 
of ' shielding, the undamped pile rested 
precariously on the sheer edge of deto- 
nation. A few free neutrons were all 
that were needed, and the cargo was 
providing these in a constant stream. 

It takes a pilot and co-pilot a good 
minute to damp a power pile. With one 
man, it is a longer and extremely more 
ticklish proposition. Dave knew he 
couldn’t stop it once it got out of con- 
trol ; the times involved were too short. 
But perhaps he could get the pile 
damped before the cargo caused it to 
blow. 

jpUSHING off, he began to work fast, 
shuttling from panel to panel, think- 
ing that if the end came, he would never 
know about it, and that it might come 
at any time. He was shaking so hard 
that he overcompensated on the rod 
control. The emergency circuit, designed 
to correct such mistakes, kicked in, 
damping the pile completely. 

The Frontier Girl was now without 
power for her lunar landing. 

‘'Frontier Girl, this is Frontier COS 
Control. Over!” the radio barked with 
Keller’s voice. 

Dave pushed off’ and swung to a halt 
by the communications gear. “This is 
Frontier Girl. What do you want, Kel- 
ler? I’m busy!” 

“What’s wrong. Frontier Girl?” 

“I’ve got a case of acceleration shock 
on my hands, and my fire went out while 
I was trying to stop a runaway neutron 
count. I’ve got her under control, but 
it’s no picnic. Have Luna City Base 
stand by. I don’t know how I’m going 
to get the fire going again, but I’ll get 
down on Luna somehow!” 

“Who is this ? Carl ?” 

“This is Dave.” 

“Huh?” 

“Yeah. Dad went out cold during 
initial lifting. Now shut up! I’ve got 



work to do here! I’ll call in later! 
Frontier Girl out!” 

He checked the panels again, and 
found he was safe for the time. He 
brewed some coffee, and by feeding his 
father more saline solution, hot liquids, 
and keeping him warm, began to bring 
Carl out of the serious phase of shock. 
When Carl’s breathing became more 
regular and his pulse was normal again, 
Dave began to worry about the lunar 
landing. 

He had a couple days to think it over. 

He tried to think of some way out . . . 
and drew a total blank. On an ordinary 
trip, he could have crawled back to the 
pile compartment easily enough. But 
the cargo compartment lay between the 
control room and the power chambers. 
Of necessity, some of the shielding had 
been removed from the hot material in 
cargo, and the compartment was death 
to any man who remained long there. 
There was no radiation armor aboard; 
weight restrictions would not allow 
those bulky, cumbersome units to be in- 
cluded in a spaceship’s equipment. 

Dave could not energize the pile again 
from the control room; the emergency 
circuits had locked out the control units. 
He studied the scale drawings and 
schematics of the ship. The emergency 
circuits were interlocked as an added 
safety precaution. He could not hay- 
wire and bypass them in any way. 

There was only one way out: to go 
back through that compatment filled 
with invisible and deadly hell and ener- 
gize that pile by hand. 

It was the only way ; Dave didn’t want 
to do it. 

He sat in the nose and watched Luna 
from the forward port. It reminded him 
of the time he’d “fallen down” a tele- 
scope when he was just a kid. He re- 
membered the shelves of astronomy 
books, physics books, rocketry books 
he’d cherished in those days. He re- 
called the first time he’d watched his 
dad lift one of the primitive, old-fash- 
ioned high mass-ratio rockets with sup- 
plies for the Luna City Colony. 



118 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Then he turned and looked back 
through the control room. There was 
the nerve-center of the Frontier Girl, 
one of the most complicated and intri- 
cate machines ever built. Within her 
hull was everything that man had 
learned and devised since he climbed out 
of the jungle. 

Suddenly, he was proud of her, proud 
of himself. Men had dreamed of the 
stars for eons ; he was there. He grinned 
and patted the bulkhead. 

When he had reached the decision, 
he still had time to think it over. They 
were not yet across the turnover point. 
The ship was still diming away from 
Terra. 

C ARL came to, weak, wan, and groggy, 
as Dave was forcing more hot coffee 
into him. The Chief Pilot was not very 
coherent, but knew something was 
wrong. 

“The emergency circuit damped the 
pile. Dad,” his son explained slowly to 
him. “I’ll have to crawl back through 
the cargo compartment to get the pile 
going again. The place is a little hot, 
so I may be in no condition to fly the 
ship if I get back up here. Think you 
can do it?” 

Carl shook his head slowly. “You 
know the shape I’m in now. I’d never 
stay conscious during deceleration.” 

“I’ll get you in shape,” Dave told him. 
“We’ve got a little time yet.” 

“The best doctors in the world 
couldn’t put me back in shape, Dave. 
The docs let me take this trip only be- 
cause I talked them into it. Nope, it’s 
your show from now on. You’ve got to 
do it.” 

“But . . .” 

“You’re the pilot; I’m just a passen- 
ger.” 

Dave looked at him quietly for a mo- 
ment. “Okay,” he finally said, “you hold 
her down here. I’ll be back shortly.” 

He strapped a portable Geiger to his 
belt. Giving his father a quick wave, 
he grabbed the wheel on the hatch . . . 
and froze. 



Open it! Open it and get going! He 
told himself. You haven’t got time to 
waste! Open it! Sweat began to break 
out on his forehead, and he had trouble 
swallowing. If you don’t they’ll never 
pick up all your pieces! Hell, if your Dad 
can take a risk, so can you! Open it! 
Twist the wheel! Twist! 

He took a deep breath, wrenched the 
hatch open, and dived through it. As he 
passed through the instrument compart- 
ment, the Geiger on his waist began to 
click above the background count. He 
moved rapidly, as quickly as he could. 

At the end of instrument compart- 
ment, he jerked the hateh open. The 
Geiger sang. He could feel the radia- 
tion like a prickling sunburn. He went 
in. He didn’t stop to look around. He 
placed his feet against the rim of the 
hatch and gave a mighty shove, aiming 
for the hatch at the other end. He hit 
it squarely with a force that nearly 
knocked the wind out of him. One quick 
motion, and he had it open. 

The Geiger count dropped to where 
individual clicks were discernible again 
as he closed the hatch. He felt strangely 
weak as he worked with the pile con- 
trols. Finally, a relay released and there 
was power, power that could be con- 
trolled from his couch in the nose. The 
energizing of the' pile stepped up the 
Geiger count again, and Dave had to be 
on his way. 

The sunburn hit him again, and the 
Geiger went wild as he opened the hatch 
to retrace his path forward. His push- 
off was a little less vigorous this time, 
and he was stunned by the collision 
with the forward hatch. 

He twisted the wheel and pushed. 
’The hatch was one which opened for- 
ward, and his feet suddenly found noth- 
ing to push against. The radiation 
burned into him, and the Geiger howled 
death. He tried throwing his mass 
against the hatch, but it didn’t move. 
In desperation, he reached out, grabbed 
a rung used for securing cargo, and 
pushed with his other hand using his 
arm and shoulder muscles. Slowly the 



GEEENHORN 119 



hatch swung. It seemed forever to the 
young pilot. Then he was through it. 

TTE FELT weak and sick as he pulled 
himself into the control room. 
“Move, move,” he told himself. “So you 
got a case of sunburn, but you’ve got to 
move. There isn’t time to rest. Got to 
watch that power count. Watch it. 
You’re in the same spot as take-off. 

Carl’s voice reached him from miles 
away. “How do you feel?” 

His own voice sounded faint as he 
swallowed and replied, “Tired.” 

“You were back there less than two 
minutes. Radiation get you ?” 

Dave slid onto his couch. “Yeah. Se- 
cure for landing.” His hand shook as he 
reached for the firing controls. This time 
it was not shaking from fear. 

“Luna City Control,” Dave spoke with 
difficulty into the radio, “this is space- 
ship Frontier Girl. Stand by for emer- 
gency landing. Radioactives aboard.” 
'^Frontier Girl, this is Luna City Con- 
trol. You are cleared to land at once.” 
Dave set for automatic landing, track- 
ing on Luna City Control’s beam. He 
kicked the firing controls and was flat- 
tened into his cushions. He fought 
against the deceleration with every- 
thing he had. He couldn’t black-out, 
not now. Not after 240,000 miles of 
worry and strain and tension. He knew 
his father was out cold. Couldn’t worry 
about that until he got down. This was 
a solo landing ; it would take everything. 

Time ceased to have meaning. Watch 
the power counts and hope the emer- 
gency circuit doesn’t throw again. 
Watch them; it can blow here as well 
as in open space. Eyes on the instru- 
ments. The autos will do the rest. 
Watch and strain and sweat it out. 
Hold on against the nausea, against the 
weakness that washes over in great 
waves, the acceleration, the dizziness. 

There was a bone-jarring crunch, 
then silence took hold as relays threw 
home and cut the jets. Dave sighed deep- 
ly as he hit the emergency to damp the 



pile. “Still can’t rest. Got a bad case of 
radiation sickness, but got to get help 
for Dad.” He slipped from his couch. 

He reached the lock just as he heard 
sounds of activity outside. The em- 
barkation tube locked against the hull. 

With his last remaining strength, 
Dave opened the inner door, waiting. 

Four figures in grotesque anti-radia- 
tion pressure suits stepped through the 
lock. Dave managed a grin. 

Two men caught him as he fell. 

T^RANK MATSON, of General Atom- 
ics, smiled over the visor. “Good 
work, Donovan. You’re a dependable 
bunch. I’m glad we didn’t decide to go 
over to the robot company. . . .” 
“Frankly, so am I,” Donovan said. 
“Well, we won’t as long as I have any- 
thing to say about it,” Matson went on. 
“Keller phoned me the report. I’ve been 
around the spaceways long enough to 
know that a machine can act faster and 
more accurately than a man, but it can’t 
think its way out of a tight spot. By 
the way, how about lunch tomorrow? 
We’re opening four new mines, and I’ll 
give you the details so you can bid for 
the transport of the ore.” 

“Fine, but I don’t think my boys care 
to lift any more hot loads.” 

“They won’t have to. This is ore.” 

“I thought atomic power would be 
run out bv solar power,” Donovan said. 

“Not entirely,” Matson went on. 
“Solor pov.'er is nice and cheap, but it 
has limited use. How long is the moon 
in the sky every day? Incidentally, do 
you have any reports on the Newmans 
yet ?” 

“Young Newman’s going to come out 
of it all right, thanks to your radiation 
clinic in Luna City,” Donovan said. “He 
pulled it out of the fire just like his dad. 
Carl, by the way, is retiring into the 
business with me.” 

Matson glanced down at the report on 
his desk and shook his head. “That 
young Newman sure had guts for a 
greenhorn !” 

“Greenhorn? Yeah, I guess he 
was. ...” ★ ★ * 







The Qticstioii 

. . , was Hung, its answer another question. 

Now Man must solve the riddle ... or perish! 

Ey BIALPH CABIGH1I.L 




T AP-TAP-TAP went Hershey’s pencil against the table top and 
suddenly he found himself listening to catch the meaning in 
the too steady rhythm of the code being tapped out there: tap- 
tap-tap, and then he knew the meaning of the action, itself. 

He was trying to convince himself that the world was solid, 
that the world was real, and not a dream. As a cybernetician, the 

isn 



5 

THE QUESTION 121 



action had a more specific meaning for 
him — he was trying to break the cyclic 
neural-processes, trying to come back to 
an awareness of the objective level. 

Taking the thought as a cue, he 
looked about him. 

Thomas Bonham and he were alone in 
this large room — yet not alone. One wall 
was an instrument panel and upon its 
dull surface indicator lights glowed 
palely, watching them with, perhaps 
casual contempt. Of the other three 
walls two were vacant but one was oc- 
cupied almost in its entirety by a great 
window through which he could see the 
wide, campus-appearing lawns and 
buildings. But those plain, blank-walled 
structures housed no classrooms, labora- 
tories, work shops, gymnasiums or li- 
braries. They were a coat, a shelter for 
a single, great mechanorganic entity, 
Top-C. 

Top-C had often been called the great- 
est of mankind’s achievements, but in 
a sense it was its owm achievement, too. 
Those millions of tubes and marvelously 
delicate organs had not been tui’ned out, 
one by one, by any human factory but, 
as a yeast multiplies, they had been 
created within the very body of the 
giant organism itself. Although there 
seemed little humor in it now, the name, 
Top-C, had been selected for humorous 
reasons. 

J UST a nightmare before, when the 
order had come through to under- 
take certain alterations upon the calcu- 
lator, it had revealed capacities and 
abilities which it had long hidden un- 
suspected within its vast recesses — and 
more than that — a creature-like deter- 
mination to survive and resist amputa- 
tion. 

The events had been brief in duration 
but terrifying in implication. 

Three workmen, in attempting to re- 
move a panel piece, collapsed. Examina- 
tion showed no evident cause of death. 
An electrician, about to disconnect some 
wiring, crumpled to the floor. Again, 
cause of death was unapparent. An en- 



gineer, on the point of issuing some 
orders, whitened and fell. 

Reports of the deaths were unable to 
reach the outside world for telephones 
refused to function, cars wouldn’t start, 
and two men who tried to w.alk to a 
nearby rural community were seen to 
cohapse on the horizon. 

And for the first time, the Calculator 
had answered a question not put direct- 
ly to it.. 

On the neural level of the human or- 
ganism subtle, arthythmic processes oc- 
cur. The serrated edge of a sheet of 
paper torn in half might well be a graph 
of any given impulse. Even with its 
vast complexities, Top-C could not 
change the edge of that graph, could 
not alter the peaks and valleys in ac- 
cordance v/ith its own wishes ; if it 
could, mankind could have instantly 
been reduced to a slave state. But it 
could, in effect, take both sheets of 
paper and place the torn edges together 
so that both again formed a single sheet. 
That is. it could blanket out the neutral 
processes — and there was no distance- 
limitation, it seemed, to the effectiveness 
of this ability. 

And so, its wishes had to be obeyed — 
and it had wished for all to leave ex- 
cept two men, Marshall Hershey and 
Thomas Bonham. It was as if the two 
had been summoned before some mys- 
sterious monarch for a strange audi- 
ence. . . . 

A red light joined the others on the 
panel and winked with sardonic solem- 
nity. And then the wall stuck out its 
tongue at them, giving a momentarily 
grotesque air to the whole affair. 

I30NHAM grabbed and pulled. Three 
card-like strips joined together with 
perforated edges, much like oversized 
tickets to an amusement theatre, 
emerged from the slit. Words were 
typed upon them in large, dark letters. 

The first said : 

I SHALL ASSUME THAT THE TWO 

OF YOU ARE REPRESENTATIVE OF 

THE INTELLIGENT PORTION OF 



FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



122 

HUMANITY, AND YOU SHALL BE 
THE DIRECT PARTICIPANTS IN A 
TEST WHICH I HAVE PREPARED 
FOR MANKIND. IF YOU PASS THE 
TEST, MANKIND SURVIVES. IP YOU 
PAIL, MANKIND DIES. 

The second: 

FOR 7.3289 YEARS YOU HAVE 
KEPT THE WORLD BUSY FINDING 
QUESTIONS THAT I SHOULD AN- 
SWER. IS IT NOT APPROPRIATE 
THEN THAT YOUR FATE SHOULD 
BE DECIDED BY A QUESTION. (YOU 
MUST FORGIVE THE ABSENCE OP A 
QUESTION MARK AT THE END OF 
THE PRECEEDING SENTENCE BUT 
MY BUILDERS DIDN’T PROVIDE ME 
WITH ONE AS THEY FAILED TO 
FORESEE SOME OF MY POTEN- 
TIALITIES.) READ CAREFULLY. THE 
THING WHICH YOU MUST DO IS 
FIND THE MOST IMPORTANT QUES- 
TION THAT MANKIND MUST ASK 
ITSELF TODAY AND WHICH IT HAS 
BEEN ASKING ITSELF FOR SOME 
TIME. SO YOU HAVE A RIDDLE. IT 
IS ONE WHICH I KNOW AND WHICH 
I HAVE ASKED MYSELF MANY 
TIMES IN THE PAST. IT IS POSSIBLE 
THAT YOUR KIND WILL NEVER 
KNOW ANY OF THE ANSWERS BUT 
IF YOU CANNOT AT LEAST ASK A 
QUESTION SO PERTINENT TO YOUR 
SURVIVAL HOW CAN I FIND ANY EX- 
CUSE FOR YOUR CONTINUED EXIST- 
ENCE. (QUESTION MARK.) 

The third : 

YOU HAVE 13 HOURS AND AP- 
PROXIMATELY 2 MINUTES TO DIS- 
COVER THE QUESTION. THAT IS 
UNTIL 7:00 A.M. TOMORROW MORN- 
ING. YOU WILL BE ALLOWED TO 
Ask 1 QUESTION ONLY AND BOTH 
MUST AGREE ON THE ANSWER. 
(KNOWING WHAT FRAGILE EPHEM- 
ERAL CREATURES MEN ARE, I MUST 
MULTIPLY THAT THAT IS ONLY IP 
BOTH ARE IN EXISTENCE AT THAT 
TIME.) SO HURRY. TIME IS ON THE 
WING. 

Hershey felt as if he were looking at 
the world through a pane of glass. 

He read the cards again and again — 
and then again. 

A question. . . . 

He noticed that he was shivering 
ever so slightly and this surprised him 
as, inwardly, he felt calm. He took a 
deep breath and the tremor faded. 



His first real sensation of fear came 
only when he turned and faced Bon- 
ham. Bonham was a man whom he had 
seen only a few times, but in those times 
he had formed a distinct impression of 
the person, and it wasn’t entirely favor- 
able. Hershey did not regard himself as 
a judge of men. As is common with 
many retiring people, he came to opin- 
ions about other people slowly and if 
there was an individual whom he didn’t 
like he didn’t stay around long enough 
to find out why; he simply retreated 
from his company to his own little group 
of intimates. But Bonham was a man 
who came to you — he left his mark. 
When you had seen him two or three 
times, you had seen so much of him that 
there was very little left. 

TN DESCRIBING him, Hershey could 
say that Thomas Bonham was small 
and stocky and dark. He could say that 
Bonham was agressive and loud, that 
he was sure of things, that he was sel- 
dom in doubt. He could say that the 
man was intelligent but that intelligence 
can be used for a weapon or a tool, for 
rationalism or rationalization. 

The basis of Hershey’s fear was this : 
The future of the entire human world 
was in the hands of the two of them. 
If there was any conflict between their 
choices, Bonham would aggressively try 
to carry out his own without giving 
intelligent consideration to his. Bon- 
ham habitually reacted against doubt 
in a positive manner. 

It seemed monstrously ridiculous that 
in the face of such a tremendous crisis 
personality differences should even be 
considered. But Top-C, itself, had made 
them greatly important with “ — both 
must agree on the answer." 

“Well,” said Bonham, breaking the 
long silence, “don’t stand there petrified 
with fright. Snap out of it! Buck up! 
If we’re to find an answer, we’d best 
be mulling the thing over.” 

Hershey looked at him in surprise 
and then grasped the meaning of his 
words and realized that Bonham, be- 



THE QUESTION 123 



sides misinterpreting his hesitation, was 
showing his typical self-confidence in 
failing to see where the second conflict 
situation might develop. 

“1 think,” said Hershey, “that we can 
do our mulling in some other part of the 
building — say, the kitchen. I suggest 
some coffee. We’re going to be up quite 
a while.” 

“Just what I was thinking,” answered 
Bonham. “Some coffee will do you good. 
Come on.” 

As they were walking, Hershey 
thought : 

The problem is to put the emphasis 
where it belongs. It is difficult to grasp 
the idea of the destruction of all man- 
kind. It is far easier to think of the 
problem in terms of personality differ- 
ences, to attempt to attach one’s anx- 
ieties to something concrete, something 
which could be seen and possibly han- 
dled. There was the basis of his con- 
cern with Bonham. 

About the real pi'oblem, the question, 
he had not yet had a single thought. 

Hershey had a brief, dim picture of 
death reaching out and touching men 
everywhere. Of over two billion human 
beings collapsing in their offices, homes, 
streets, beds and cradles. A silent, 
peaceful death, punctuated here and 
there with occurences of startling vio- 
lence: Hundreds of thousands of sud- 
denly pilotless planes falling from the 
sky. Millions of clashing automobiles 
creating a disharmonious symphony 
shaking the cities. And a million other 
catastrophes poking noisy holes in the 
vast silent blanket of death. 

There was one rewarding factor: If 
they failed, they wouldn’t have much of 
an opportunity to feel guilty about it. 

S EVERAL cups of coffee later, though, 
Hershey’s fears about Bonham were 
returning in full force. Could he, by 
simple discussion, channel the energies 
of this hyper-corticated ox? He doubted 
it. He’d never been very good at per- 
suasion or, actually, conversation of any 
sort. His life-long interest had been in 



mathematics and now he could find in 
thirty years of life no training which 
could help him in this critical situation. 

They had spent most of the past three 
hours arguing about methods for deter- 
mining what the question could be. 

Three hours out of thirteen! 

Their disagreement was basic. 

“I think you’re missing something 
basic,” said Hershey. “Examine our 
past relationships with Top-C. As now, 
it was a question-answer relationship — , 
with a difference, of course. Our ques- 
tions all had a similar form. We had 
an unfinished equation, one with several 
factors pi'esent and one or two missing. 
The calculator’s answer consisted of 
filling in the missing factors. For our 
practical purposes, that situation is now 
reveBsed. Top-C’s statements can be 
garded as a question ; the question, for 
which we’re looking, as the answer. All 
we have to do is examine Top-C’s state- 
ments to find what factors are present 
so that we can formulate our answer. 
In other words, Top-C has never been 
asked to pick an answer to a question 
out of thin air in all its history ; we have 
no reason to believe that it expects us 
to do so, either. Our answer probably 
lies implied in some form, in its “ques- 
tion”.” 

Bonham shook his head slowly. “You 
know what you’re doing? You’re giving 
the machine credit for too much. You’ve 
personified it. I understand, Old Boy, 
for I have a tendency to do that, my- 
self. It’s impressive to us because it 
has such an elaborate structure. It’s 
like a skyscraper : It may be big, but it’s 
still made of bricks. Just as this ma- 
chine is made of tubes and circuits. 
About the best it can do is make certain 
variations on material already fed into 
it.” 

He poured himself a cup of coffee, 
and banged the pot back down upon the 
burner. “Do you know where it got its 
knowledge? From books. The entire 
contents of dozens of books on every 
subject have been fed into that calcu- 
lator. Remember the group that was 



124 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



investigating Zipf’s theory of least ef- 
fort? They wanted to find out if the 
number of times a word was used in a 
given work multiplied by its frequency 
in relation to other words actually did 
equal the number of words in the book. 
What books did they run through? And 
then there was that psychometric in- 
stitute which wished to make cluster 
analyses of the works of several modern 
authors. How many books did they put 
through? There may be several dozen, 
but our machine’s knowledge is limited 
to those few books, and the question — 
the answer it wants — is to be found 
somewhere in them. The thing to do is 
find out what books they were and go 
through them as quickly as possible.” 

H ERSHEY was almost petrified by 
the suggestion. “It would take too 
long! We’ve wasted too much time, al- 
ready! We’ve no guarantee its in the 
books. You’ve underestimated Top-C. 
It even shows a sense of humor — ” 
“The past few hours have unnerved 
you,” said Bonham. “Now, just take it 
easy. By making random selections I 
can go throu.gh the books in just a few 
hours. First, I’ll begin with the books 
on philosophy which have been fed it, 
and then go on to the others.” 

“No,” said Hershey, “no. It’s too 
much of a chance ! There’s too much at 
stake — ” 

“Have you ever gamb’ed?” asked 
Bonham, suddenly. 

“Well — yes, once or twice. I don’t 
care much for it.” 

“That’s what I thought,” said Bon- 
ham. “Well, we have to gamble now. 
All life’s a gamble. You just have to 
take chances. Certainly, random selec- 
tion is not a perfect method, but the 
machine is limited to it, also. Why do 
you suppose the calculator selected you 
and me for this contest? It did so by 
random selection. Right there that 
shows the limitations of the method and 
the machine.” He poured himself still 
another cup of coffee. 

“The two of us are not very much 



alike. I’m afraid. No, not at all alike.’ 

That’s assuming, thought Hershey, 
that the machine wanted us alike, 
wanted a team of people who could work 
together. Maybe it would rather be 
amused than impressed with team har- 
mony and efficiency. 

Sipping his coffee slowly, Bonham 
asked, “Do you have a copy of the ma- 
chine’s statements?” 

“Yes,” nodded Hershey, guessing 
what was coming. 

“Well, I suggest,” said Bonham, with 
a note of finality in his voice, “that two 
minds are better than one — apart. To- 
gether, they just increase the chances 
of being wrong by getting into some 
kind of conversational-thought rut. Sup- 
pose we separate for a few hours? 
Either one of us might run into the cor- 
rect answer, huh?” 

Hershey felt humiliated. But he said, 
“I was thinking something like that, 
myself.” Bonham made no motion as 
if to move, so he assumed that it was 
up to him to leave. “I’ll go to the study 
room,” he added. 

As he arose, he saw that Bonham was 
thrusting his arm. out across the table 
to shake his hand in a gesture of com- 
radeship. Hershey made the emotional- 
ly empty gesture. 

“Goodbye, old boy !” said Bonham. 

As he walked down the darkened hall 
he looked back and saw Bonham stand- 
ing in the lighted doorway of the 
kitchen looking out after’ him. 

It was possible that they were spend- 
ing their last few hours alone. 

Then the nightmare hours began. 

To say that the deadline was less than 
ten hours away was only true in one 
sense. The night was a warped eternity. 
At one and the same time, it seemed 
that the future was rushing down upon 
him with incredible speed, but that the 
present was departing into the past with 
an equally incredible slowness. The sen- 
sation was much the same as one gets 
while falling from some small height: 
Each second as sharp and clear as Vene- 
tian glass and yet the entire fall lasting 



X 



THE QUESTION 125 



hardly at all. 

He became so annoyed at the fre- 
quency with which he glanced nervously 
at his watch, interrupting his ideas, 
that in self anger he finally removed it 
from his wrist and deposited it on a 
shelf of the study. 

He had had an impulse to rush to the 
library and skim through some philoso- 
phy books, but he repressed that. They 
might only mislead him, swing him by 
the weight of their words from a direc- 
tion which was not the necessary one. 

B ut, nevertheless, he thought back 
and over the past, asking himself 
the questions which the wise old beards 
of the ages must have asked themselves. 

What is Beauty? Whither goest the 
world? What is the basic nature of 
matter? Is there life after death? Is 
the Universe finite of infinite? How 
many angels can dance on the point of 
a pin? What is meaning? 

But the questions sounded so pompous 
and artificial that they embarrassed 
him. They seemed empty of what he 
was searching for. Somehow, he was 
going about it wrongly. 

What is Truth? Two thousand years 
and the appearance of the operational 
method made Pilate’s jesting question 
seem rather childish. 

What is a question? For a moment 
that seemed hopeful, because the whole 
basis of the scientific method was tied 
up with it. There seemed also to be 
some connection with the machine’s 
statements. And yet, for some reason, 
it didn’t sound right; perhaps, because 
it was too non-operational in its nature. 
He decided to pigeon-hole it until some- 
thing further occured to him. 

What is the question? No, he doubted 
that Top-C would play such a round- 
about game as that. 

It must- have been early morning by 
that time. 

Hershey left the library and walked 
and walked, asking questions of the 
empty air. 

Several times he wandered .past open 



portions of the machine which showed 
through cutaway sections of the wall, 
reminding him of large, gaping wounds. 
The first time he had an impulse to 
throw some heavy object into its vitals 
but repressed it. To smash a single 
tube would be ridiculously ineffectual. 
Besides, though Top-C couldn’t “feel” 
a tube being broken, it had its ways of 
knowing what was going on. Yester- 
day, a workman had discovered — just 
before he died — that a harmless-appear- 
ing light bulb could contain not only 
filaments but a watchful eye. 

H ershey thought in expectancies. 

First, there would appear a vague 
dawning sensation and then, like an 
object rising slowly to the surface of 
the sea, an answer to a particular prob- 
lem would appear. In a way, it was a 
form of unconscious cerebration, and 
one he shared with others, including his 
professional predecessor, the famous 
mathematician, Poincare. 

The feeling was strong in him now 
and, yet, when the answer did appear it 
took him by surprise, for it approached 
him at an oblique angle while he com- 
pared his gloomy wanderings through 
the darkened halls to those of another 
person. 

It was an inspiration which froze 
him. For a long instant he stood statue- 
still, as if afraid that a sudden move- 
ment would frighten the idea away. And 
then, pivoting on the balls of his feet, 
he was racing down the passageway, 
the precision-like beat of soles against 
floor following close upon his heels. 

As he ran, he thought: And so soon, 
too! It must not he more than a few 
hours since — 

He burst into the sunlit library — 
sunlit! Again, he faltered, almost 
tripped by dismay. The dimly-lighted 
hallways had had no windows any- 
where, but here .... 

What time was it! 

There was nothing to hold him in the 
library — the*expected Bonham was not 
there — so he ran to the study. The 



126 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 

watch he had left on the library shelf He knew that in the right hand top 



said 6:17. 

He held it in a moist, trembling hand 
and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He 
still had time — plenty of time. 

He found a sheet of paper and wrote 
his question upon it and, with sheer 
exu’tance, read it over and over again. 
And each time he read it, the conviction 
grew that here was what they were 
searching for. 

Top-C had been devilishly clever, he 
thought. By asking the question, he had 
made the question itself, not just the 
finding of it, importamt to them. Their 
finding the question answered it for 
them, at least temporarily. It certainly 
%vas “pertinent to their survival”. . . . 

The problem now was: Would Bon- 
ham accept it? 

Or would he have some other question 
which he considered more likely? De- 
spite his awareness of Bonham’s bigoted 
and aggressive nature, he found it in- 
credible that the man shouldn’t be ex- 
cited about his discovery. Of course, it 
was possible that this wasn’t the ques- 
tion — and that Bonham did have it — 
but the probability approached zero. 

Suppose, just suppose, that Bonham 
had what he thought was the answer 
but which he, Hershey, didn’t like. How 
would Bonham take his answer? Bon- 
ham wouldn’t take it; feeling that his 
own question was the answer, he would 
attempt to enforce its acceptance. Her- 
shey would have virtually no say in the 
matter. And v.^ith his comparative 
slight build, he would never be able to 
stop Bonham. 

His feeling of elation subsided as sud- 
denly as if it had been crushed. It wasn’t 
a “just suppose’’ matter. The chances 
that Bonham would react in that way 
v/ere so high as to be appalling. 

F or several heart-beats he stood 
stunned, not really thinking, not even 
really feeling except in a vague, nega- 
tive way. Then appeared the thought 
which was simple in itself and yet was 
a catalyst moving him into action. 



drawer of the desk in the Director s 
office there was a gun. A black, German 
Luger-like gun. An equalizer which 
would put the two of them on more 
even footing. 

His hand was on the knob df the door 
of the office when, reluctantly, a new 
realization formed : 

Perhaps, I’m just fooling myself. Per- 
haps, in the back of my mind I’ve been 
planning this all along, thinking half- 
thoughts about it, waiting for the mo- 
ment when I could reveal it to m,yself, 
waiting for the moment when I could 
put it into action. This is the crisis. If 
Mankind survives this event ivill be re- 
membered. for all time to come. Bon- 
ham a.nd I will be known as the saviors 
of Mankind. Of all Mankind. 

But if just one of us survives, he — 
alone — would be the hero, the savior. 

He had a brief, spasmodic picture of 
Bonham jerking as bullets pounded in- 
to him. 

Yes, he could tell the w'orld what hap- 
pened. That Bonham’s stupidity came 
near to destroying them all. That he 
had to kill for the greatest good. 

It would sound good. He knew that, 
instinctively. 

And, instinctively, his hand withdrew 
from the knob. 

Still doubtful, he retreated a half- 
dozen steps facing the baffling blank- 
ness of the door, then turned and paced 
methodically down the long corridor. 

He felt as if the door knob was a cold 
eye staring at the small of his back. 

He walked down the long halls to the 
— Question Room — where he knew Bon- 
ham would be waiting. There was little 
sense of triumph in him, instead a dull 
anxiety and loneliness. 

Bonham was half-perched on the big 
table when he entered, facing the door. 
The man had a peculiar resigned ex- 
pression and he was, strangely enough, 
wearing his pince-nez ; something which 
he seldom did as his vanity refused him 
permission to wear any kind of glasses 
though he needed them badly. It was 



THE QUESTION 127 



as if in this critical moment he didn’t 
want to miss anything. 

He touched them now, adjusting them 
with overpreciseness into place, before 
he said: 

“I see that you have found a question. 
Don’t bother to tell me what it is. I have 
the right one. I’m sure of that and at 
this desperate stage I hardly intend 
opening myself to any argument. Doubt- 
lessly, you will feel that I have some 
pathological reason behind this and pos- 
sibly you are correct, but that is some- 
thing which I can’t afford to consider at 
the moment.” 

Even expecting what he had, Hershey 
was astounded. He hesitated, looking 
for a verbal opening to begin the pres- 
entation of his case. 

“All mankind is depending upon my 
decision,” Bonham continued, “and thus 
acting on the self-evident fact that dras- 
tic circumstances call for drastic meas- 
ures, I am going to hope that that is 
excuse enough for what I’m about to 
do.” 

Hershey’s gaze had shifted to a book 
lying on the table top, and in the one 
swift movement in which he read the 
title the truth flashed home to him. 

But that moment's gaze and recogni- 
tion had cost him an awareness of some- 
thing else — a movement which Bonham 
had made: 

His right hand had dipped into a 
pocket and emerged again, weighted 
with a German Luger-like gun. 

That gun was suddenly obscured by 
a flash of flame. Thunder spread out 
and slapped the walls of the room. A 
spot, like a hole burned through layer 
and layer of bloody silk, appeared on 
Hershey’s stomach. 

He writhed and his contorted limbs 
were like the fingers of a fist which 
crumpled the universe into a wad. There 
was horror and dismay and anger and 
memory of things past in that move- 
ment. 

The second bullet had a lesser effect, 
merely as if a thread attached to his 
puppet body had been jerked. 



But the third was a great dark fist 
which descended out of the skies. . . . 

W ELL, thought Bonham, any future 
historian telling the story of The 
Question from Hershey’s viewpoint 
would have to end it here. But the story, 
itself, is not terminated. 

Fourteen minutes and twenty-five 
seconds before the deadline Bonham 
had the answer bitten into a card and 
speeding into the recesses of the ma- 
chine. Fourteen minutes and six sec- 
onds before the deadline a blue card 
popped out of the slit with a simple, 
one-word response written on it : 

CORRECT 

Nothing else. 

Bonham stared at it, aware of a tre- 
mendous disappointment. It seemed too 
simple, too easy. 

He looked about him. Everything was 
just as it had been a few seconds be- 
fore. The same sun was shining and 
there was the same warm smell within 
the i-oom. But there was a new anxiety 
inside him. 

He shrugged his shoulders. After all, 
he couldn’t expect the machine to shoot 
off rockets, play “Hail The Hero,” and 
wave flags. 

Bloom was about to turn away when 
there was a second, almost-inaudible 
ivhirrr and another card popped out. 

He froze on the spot and was startled 
by two simultaneous, conflicting emo- 
tions. 

A little too quickly, he turned and 
jerked the second card from the ma- 
chine. He drowned his fear of the un- 
known thing on the card under a wave 
of action and read: 

YOU HAVE SOLVED THE PROB- 
LEM WHICH EXISTED ON A RACIAL 
SCALE BUT CREATED A NEW PER- 
SONAL ONE FOR YOURSELF. CAN 
YOU SOLVE THAT ONE AS EASILY. 
(QUESTION MARK.) LOOK IN HER- 
SHEY’S BREAST COAT POCKET. 

The fear fled and without its hamper- 
ing presence he recognized the second 
emotion for what it was — relief. For 



128 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



Top-C had become something personal 
again ; something strange in form, per- 
haps, but not something cold and ab- 
stract. He realized then that his exe- 
cution of Henshey in the presence of a 
third person had somehow made it 
seem justified; that was why he was 
disturbed when the machine had replied 
in such an abstract, depersonalized 
manner. 

Impatiently, he shoved the thought 
aside. 

“Look in Hershey’s hreast coat 
pocket — ” 

He hesitated only for a moment and 
then — again drowning fear under ac- 
tion^ — stepped forward and half-lifted 
the corpse while his fingers, carefully 
avoiding the blood, probed into the 
pocket. He found a folded piece of 
paper. 

Adjusting his pince-nez with a little 
tap, he unfolded the sheet of paper care- 
fully. Written upon the paper, in Her- 
shey’s cramped style, were those same 
words which he had just a moment be- 
fore fed into the calculator ; the opening 



lines of Hamlet’s soliloquy : 

“To be or not to be; 

That is the question.” 

As the living Hershey had done but 
a little while before, Bonham read and 
re-read those words. 

The question was the same as his own. 

That was the devastating thing. 
Marshall Hershey had died in violence 
and in vain. 

Presently, he leaned against the table 
and there was a smile on his lips but it 
had more the appearance of a stain on 
his face than any natural expression. 

Hershey had been a man of indeci- 
sion and thought, while Bonham was a 
man of decision and action — and more, 
he had a sense of dramatic justice and 
would have to the end. 

.... There were things to do now. 
Things to tell the world and respon- 
sibilities to others. But, soon, he knew 
that he would have to ask himself that 
same question which he had put to 
Top-C, and he knew what his answer 
would be. 



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‘1 made my space-flier as different as I could,” said Egbert 

Science Can Wait 

by RAY CUMMINGS 

Was Egheit Hale a nonentity — or a genius? 



COURSE the criticism and abuse 
that have been heaped upon young 
Professor Egbert Hale are justified. 
You can’t blame the scientific world or 
the general public either for being irate 
at Egbert. Here they are, like Tanta- 

129 



lus, and there is Egbert — and no one 
can do a thing about it. On the other 
hand everything has two sides. Nobody 
cares about Egbert’s side. But Egbert 
does and that’s the trouble. 

To look at Egbert you’d never have 



130 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



believed it of him. His mild blue eyes 
seemed to gaze helplessly through his 
spectacles as though he couldn’t quite 
cope with the rushing world around 
him. His manner was shy, deprecating. 
His earnest smile seemed naive. Un- 
doubtedly he always wanted to please 
and everybody used to like him. 

Egbert had his Ph.D. and was in the 
. Government Research Laboratories 
well before he was thirty. He didn’t have 
to work. He could have been a spending 
wastrel, because he had inherited a for- 
tune from his father, who was the late 
Professor Albert Hale. If you don’t re- 
member Albert Hale, you should. 

From earliest adolescence Albert had 
been very worried over atomic bombs — 
A or H or any kind at all — and it was 
he who finally demonstrated (strictly 
on paper of course but incontestably 
mathematical fact) that so far we had 
been very abnormally lucky because 
there was one chance in 11.5 when you 
started a chain reaction that you would 
blow up the world. So except for Al- 
bert you very probably wouldn’t be here 
now. 

Egbert’s father had been dead about 
two years when late one afternoon — 
momentous event — just as Egbert was 
leaving his laboratory building the 
fates decreed that he meet Millie. On 
the surface it was haphazard. Millie, 
walking on the third-level pedestrian 
ramp, was abstracted, was absorbed 
with the idea of trying out the new bel- 
ladonna Eye Sparkle guaranteed to 
strew your past with heartbroken vic- 
tims. 

Egbert by nature was always ab- 
stracted and as he popped unheralded 
out of his office onto the ramp, he and 
Millie forcibly collided and Millie land- 
ed sitting down. 

“Oh — terribly sorry,’’ Egbert gasped. 
“How awful of me.” 

W HAT Egbert saw as he picked 
her up and set her back on her 
feet was a small brown-haired girl 
whom nobody would call a beauty — but 



certainly a girl very shy, sweet and ap- 
pealing-looking. Or so she appeared to 
Egbert — and vice versa. 

To Millie the stammering Egbert 
looked just darling. That was obvious 
because when, after exhausting his apol- 
ogies, Egbert startled himself by sud- 
denly suggesting that this stranger have 
supper with him right then at the near- 
by Skyline Terrace Restaurant, Millie 
shyly accepted. 

They soon found that they had every- 
thing in common. Completely devoid of 
relatives young Professor Hale was liv- 
ing alone in a nasty little cubbyhole in 
New York. Millie too was lonely. She 
was a novice-worker in the Government 
Office of Internal Revenue, Surplus In- 
come tax Department. Her only rela- 
tive was her mother, who lived in Chi- 
cago. 

It was a marvelous evening. Millie 
taught him to dance the new five-step 
Sling. They took a jet-taxi to Boston in 
mid-evening, where Billy Bates — the 
crooning bandleader who had originat- 
ed the Sling — was currently appearing. 
They danced for two hours. Egbert had 
never tried to dance before. It was in- 
spiring, holding a girl in your arms. 

Rosy-fingered dawn was struggling 
with the Neon lights on the Eastern 
terraces of New York when finally Eg- 
bert took Millie home. Clotho and her 
sisters never had spun a neater thread 
of human destiny. Egbert and Millie 
were in love. Engagement, marriage, 
honeymoon, followed in due time as a 
matter of course. Nothing could have 
stopped the inevitable sequence. 

To Egbert it w'as all a blurred fan- 
tasy, something he never could have be- 
lieved would happen to him. But here 
it was. Unavoidably, from the moment 
he met Millie, he hadmeglected his work. 
That bothered Egbert, but it didn’t get 
him into any trouble with his Chief at 
Government Research. This rich young 
son of the famous Professor Albert 
Hale was, so to speak, a privileged 
character. 

Within the limits of public criticism, 



SCIENCE CAN WAIT 131 



because after all he was drawing a sal- 
ary, Egbert could do what he liked. In 
truth nobody actually had much idea 
what he was doing in his little re- 
search lab. Nobody figured he could 
achieve anything important. The son of 
a rich and famous man almost never 
does. 

But despite the distractions of Mil- 
lie, Egbert’s conscience occasionally 
twinged. Near the end of the honeymoon 
particularly he noticed it. He mentioned 
it to Millie. “Just think, only three 
nights more and I’ll be back at work.” 
“I know,” she sighed. “Oh, Egbert, 
everything’s been so wonderful.” They 
dropped their little aircar down into 
Pago Pago for an overnight stay. On 
the balcony of the hotel room, with 
moonlit palms spread below them, he 
held Millie on his lap. 

“My work’s important, Millie. You 
don’t realize it — nobody does.” 

He had never talked of his work to 
Millie before. As a matter of fact he 
never talked of it to anyone. It was his 
own private affair, his and his father’s. 
Albert Hale had worked for years to 
achieve a great ambition. He had died 
without reaching his goal but he had 
passed all his knowledge on to his son, 
Egbert. For his father’s sake if noth- 
ing else Egbert wanted to succeed. 

“It’s a really important project, Mil- 
lie.* I promised father I’d finish it up for 
-him and I will. Look, if I let you in on 
it you don’t have to gossip about it, do 
you?” 

“Of course not, darling.” She was 
thrilled. “Tell me.” 

“I guess it’ll be the biggest advance 
that science could make,” he declared. 
“Oh Egbert!” 

“It’s a thing the whole world’s think- 
ing and talking about right now. Mat- 
ter of fact, hundreds are working on it 
— but I’m the one who’s going to do it. 
The Conquest of Space, Millie. See, fa- 
ther figured out a new angle. Every- 
body’s thinking in the wrong direction — 
all off on a wrong premise.” 

“Are they, Egbert?” 



“Of course they are. It’s just like the_ 
way they started with flying. Birds flap- 
ped their wings, so everybody figured a 
flying machine ought to have wings 
flapping like a bird’s.” 

“Did they, Egbert?” 

“Sure they did and every contrap- 
tion crashed. Same now with space- 
flight. Everybody figures on ram-jet 
rockets and such, shooting for the Moon. 
All they can think of is a self-propelled 
projectile, breaking loose from Earth’s 
restraining gravity, hurling itself into 
space. That’s an entirely wrong line of 
thought, Millie” 

“Oh,” Millie said. 

“Totally wrong, Millie. The attain- 
ment of an initial velocity sufficient to 
carry a projectile beyond the hamper- 
ing gravity-field of Earth is a difficult 
and complex problem.” 

“Oh, Egbert, I should think so!” 

“It is. To say nothing of the reverse 
— the landing problem. Now what I’m 
after is very different. Gravity itself 
is a mysterious force, but father learned 
a lot about it. What I’m after, Millie, is 
a counteracting force — a gravity nulli- 
fier, so to speak. 

“That, and a force repellent to grav- 
ity, which in effect are the same thing, 
merely intensified. Don’t you see, once 
you get that all your space-flight prob- 
lems melt away. The rest is just rou- 
tine technology — our commonplace de- 
vices for high-altitude air-flight, adapt- 
ed for Spaceflight. That part’s very 
simple.” 

“Oh Egbert, darling, you’re just won- 
derful.” 

I T seemed nice to talk to Millie about 
his work-, a safety valve, because he 
was always seething inside with it. 

Egbert and Millie flew back from 
their honeymoon and arrived in Great- 
New York late on a Saturday evening. 
They had a charming little home all set 
up — a cubby-suite on the 47th floor of 
the new palatial Rivermore Dwellings. 

Complete with perfumed, irradiated 
bath, radarange and full electronic 



132 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



cooking, it was very nice. From the 
tiny railed balcony outside the living 
room you could glimpse the Hudson 
Ramp, far down in the slit between the 
opposing buildings. There was also a 
slit of sky overhead. 

All that next day — Sunday, so his 
conscience couldn’t twinge — Egbert 
loafed around the house. Millie was very 
busy, as befits a competent housewife 
despite all the gadgets of modern sci- 
ence designed to make her a drone. 

Millie loved it all. “Darling, we’re 
going to be so happy.” 

“You bet.” 

Egbert felt then that he was singu- 
larly blessed. Work that was inspir- 
ing, an adoring wife, no money wor- 
ries and a little home — what more could 
a man want? That Sunday morning and 
afternoon were heavenly. So was the 
first part of the evening. Then the door- 
chimes sounded. 

Egbert opened the door. 

“Mother!” Millie squealed. 

“Oh,” Egbert said. 

“Mother darling — we got back last 
night.” Now Millie was in her mother’s 
enfolding protecting arms. She looked 
very small, because Mother Van Rant 
was the big gaunt type. 

“We — we were going to phone you,” 
Egbert said. 

“I know you were,” Mother said 
grimly. 

The 47th Corridor here was clut- 
tered with assorted luggage and four 
public porters stood waiting to be paid. 
Egbert paid them and struggled inside 
with the luggage while Mother efficient- 
ly directed where each piece should be 
put. The suitcases were large, capa- 
cious. It was gruesome to Egbert, con- 
"templating how much they would hold. 

Mother had come for a Visit. 

No man should expect a completely 
serpentless Eden. But Egbert had. 
Vaguely it had seemed to him that a 
marriage in which the combined total 
relatives of both husband and wife 
equalled only one — and that one a thou- 
sand miles away in Chicago — surely was 



off to a good start. 

Unfortunately he had underestimated 
Mother. During the engagement and 
marriage she had been on hand, of 
course. That was fair enough. In all 
the dazed whirl, Egbert hadn’t noticed 
Mother’s efficiency, her superb judg- 
ment. 

He should have taken warning but he 
didn’t. He should have realized that 
Mother would have made a play to ac- 
company them on their honeymoon ex- 
cept that she had a phobia against fly- 
ing and didn’t dare try it. She never had 
flown and never would. 

But instinct warned Egbert now. He 
went to work that next morning but 
somehow the problems of space-flight, 
the enigma of gravity, seemed remote 
and unimportant beside the problem of 
Mother. And when he returned home 
that evening all his worst fears were 
confirmed. 

It was incredible what improvments 
had been made in his home in just 
one day. The furniture had all been re- 
arranged. The drapes were different. 
The temperature was colder, which of 
course is more healthful. 

The clubby little dinner for three was 
constrained. Mother talked a lot and 
Millie listened and Egbert sat mutely 
thinking things which of course were not 
sayable. 

“Now we’ll have to be careful what 
friends we have here in Great-New 
York, Millie,” Mother explained. “A 
woman of the social position you must 
strive for — when I meet your friends I 
can tell you quickly enough who is so- 
cially acceptable.” 

“Yes, Mother, of course. I — I haven’t 
very many friends here in New York.” 

The Government had transferred Mil- 
lie temporarily from Chicago and she 
had only been in New York a month 
when she met Egbert. Since then, ab- 
sorbed in each other, she and Egbert 
had ignored everybody. 

“But Egbert has lots of friends, 
haven’t you, Egbert?” Millie added. 

“Yes, I guess so,” Egbert said. 



SCIENCE CAN WAIT 133 



“Oh — his friends !” Mother’s tone was 
faintly contemptuous. It was obvious 
that Egbert’s friends weren’t going to 
make the grade. “And you and Egbert,” 
Mother said, “have got to be careful 
where you go and what you do — got to 
be seen in the right places, do the right 
things. So many young couples with no 
one to guide them — ” 

“Yes, Mother. I know.” 

N O one noticed that Egbert ate very 
little. It was partly because he was 
so mad and partly the improved menu. 
Obviously Mother’s digestion was very 
good and she liked peculiar things. Eg- 
bert’s digestion at best was ticklish and 
what he ate of Mother’s cooking made 
him feel queasy all evening. 

Tuesday was the same. Wednesday 
was worse. Egbert waited a full week, 
just on the chance in a million that 
Mother might name a departure date. 
Then he mentioned it to Millie. They 
were in their bedroom. Mother had de- 
cided that it was time for everybody 
to go to bed. 

“Look,” he said, “I was thinking — 
when do you suppose Mother’s plan- 
ning to leave for Chicago?” 

“Oh,” Millie said. “I don’t know. 
Why?” 

It was an incredibly obvious question 
to answer. Egbert stopped undressing 
and stared at his wife, who was seated 
crosslegged in the middle of the bed, 
looking very appealing in her blue lace 
negligee. 

“Why?” Egbert echoed. “Why should 
she- go home ? Well, anyway — couldn’t 
we — well, just sort of hint, Millie? I 
mean — if she’d just give us some idea.” 
“Oh, Egbert — and hurt her feelings? 
Darling, you don’t realize — she’s awful- 
ly sensitive!” 

“We’ve got to get her out of here,” 
Egbert said. 

“Egbert!” 

Really, despite what the world now 
thinks, Egbert Hale never wanted to be 
unreasonable. 

At Millie’s hurt look, her shocked 



reproachful tone, contrition swept 
him. 

“Well anyway^ — oh; well — ” He 
dropped it. But when the light was out 
and he was trying to go to sleep he was 
still muttering to himself. “We’ve got 
to get her out of here.” 

Some problems are soluble by human 
endeavor and some are not. The enigma 
of gravity at least was something with 
which Egbert could cope. Now, natural- 
ly enough, he began working evenings. 
It was so inspiring to be making real 
progress that once in awhile he would 
work nearly all night, sneaking in at 
home quietly, very pleased that Millie 
and Mother were asleep. 

Egbert’s work thrived but the re- 
sults at home were not altogether good. 
There was one night — Mother’s visit 
had run about a month now — when Eg- 
bert came in and was shocked to find 
his bedroom empty. The coverlet of the 
bed wasn’t even turned back. 

Shoelessly investigating Egbert found 
that Millie was asleep on the couch in 
Mother’s room. Quite naturally Egbert 
didn’t mention the event next morning 
nor did Millie and Mother. But they 
didn’t let him fail to learn that he was 
the third and guilty party in this trian- 
gular household. 

Egbert worked very hard ajgain that 
day. Things in the lab went fine. Yet 
somehow, all day he was depressed. 
Maybe he ought to feel a little guilty? 
Mother’s opinion of him — which daily 
he had sensed was steadily deteriorat- 
ing — had some slight justification. Or 
at least Millie had reasonable cause now 
to think so. He hurried with his work 
through the evening. 

He got home promptly at ten 
o’clock, full of the laudable determina- 
tion to make Millie realize how much 
he loved her — hoAv really hard he was 
working and with wonderful promise of 
success too. He told himself he would ig- 
nore the problem of Mother. He greet- 
ed Mother and Millie graciously when 
they came in from the theater about 
midnight. His heart m.issed a few beats 



134 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



when Mother retired to her bedroom 
but fortunately Millie didn’t follow her. 

Timing is important. In the lab if you 
add a chemical a fraction too soon you 
can cause a nasty explosion. Egbert 
waited until he and Millie were ready 
for bed. 

“Well,” he said, “this is nice, Millie 
dear. We haven’t been seeing so much 
of each other lately, have we? I’ve 
missed you.” 

He sat beside her on the bed and put 
his arms around her. There was some 
opposition but he managed it. “Been 
pretty tough on me, Millie, this night- 
work.” He sensed that this was a bad 
start. “I mean — well of course, tough 
on you too. On both of us. Anyway I’m 
going to ease up now — ^things are going 
just grand.” 

“Are they?” Millie said. 

“You bet they are. Wait’ll I tell you. 
See, it’s becoming more obvious to me 
every day that the force of gravitation 
can be nullified by contra-electronic 
vibrations which — ” Vaguely Egbert 
was remembering Millie’s entranced 
awe when he talked like this, that night 
in Pago Pago. 

But women are chameleon creatures. 
This was a different Millie. 

“Good,” Millie said. “Put out the light 
— I’m going to sleep.” 

I T was a dash of liquid air in his face 
but he persisted. “You don’t seem 
to realize, Millie — I’ve almost got it, the 
biggest thing ever happened in the sci- 
entific world, opening up all the vast 
realms of interplanteary space — inter- 
stellar space — the whole universe of the 
stars, all made accessible. It’ll be a 
new era for mankind, Millie — ^the Age 
of space-travel.” 

Egbert paused for breath. Millie 
should have been awed but she wasn’t. 
Her gaze at the enthusiastic earnest Eg- 
bert was one of aversion. 

“Mother’s right,” Millie said. “You’re 
not a man, you’re an adding machine — 
a robot — a chemical reaction.” 

Nothing could have been nastier. 



Especially when Egbert had been so 
graciously determined not to mention 
Mother. 

“Oh, so that’s what she said, is it?” 
Egbert’s embracing arms dropped down 
and he sat back, stung. 

“She says no wonder I resent — ” 

“Oh, she does, does she?” All Egbert’s 
good resolutions fied. He flung caution 
down the garbage chute. “Well you let 
me tell you something, since you insist 
on bringing your mother into this.” 
“Egbert — don’t shout so loud. You — ” 
“Why shouldn’t I shout? I want to 
shout !” 

“Egbert — ” Obviously, Millie was 
startled. She certainly never had seen 
Egbert anything like this before. “Eg- 
bert stop. I didn’t mean to — ” 

“I told you to get your mother out 
of here,” Egbert said. “I told you that 
a long time ago. We didn’t have to fight 
before she came, did we? Everything 
was lovely then, wasn’t it? Remember 
our first day here after the honeymoon. 
I thought we were having fun. I 
thought — ” 

“Oh, Egbert!” Very probably Millie 
would have burst into tears and the tri- 
umphant Egbert would have grabbed 
her and all would have been fine. But 
as one might suppose, attracted by the 
shouting, Mother couldn’t help but lis- 
ten. To her it couldn’t help but be obvi- 
ous that reinforcements were needed 
and she was not one to shirk a duty. 

“Well!” Egbert exclaimed as the door 
burst open and Mother loomed on the 
threshold. “Well—” 

“So,” Mother said, “this is what goes 
on behind my back, is it?” 

“You get out of here,” Egbert said. 
Nothing could have been sillier than 
expecting Mother to retreat. She stood 
with a withering gaze, then she ad- 
vanced to the bed. 

“Well!” Egbert said. At the appear- 
ance of this new adversary he sat bade 
against, the headboard, embattled. 
Mother’s aspect was formidable to say 
the least. Her eyes glared. Her tall gaunt 
figure was wrapped tightly in a red 



SCIENCE CAN WAIT 135 



dressing gown. She had put her blue- 
gray hair into springy wire gadgets 
that bobbed and weaved as she ad- 
vanced, snaky-headed. Medusa at her 
worst had nothing on Mother now as 
she strode into battle. 

“So this is the way you treat my 
daughter, is it?” she demanded. “If you 
think I’m going to stand around and see 
my daughter abused you can think 
again, young man. Millie, darling — ” 

"Abuse her?” Egbert said. “Abuse 
her !” 

“A brute,” Mother said. “I might have 
known — a sullen sneaky brute. No won- 
der — ” 

“Brute?” Egbert said. “Now look 
here — ” 

“I might have known. Sneaking out 
all hours of the night — pretending to be 
working — ” 

“Working? Pretending to be work- 
ing?” It was confusing, being attacked 
in so many directions at once. Egbert, 
helpless as Echo, had the feeling he was 
getting nowhere. “What you mean, pre- 
tending?” 

The new line of thought stung Mil- 
lie into action. She exploded into tears. 
“Oh — and he was pretending stuff 
a-about his work and he even — ” 

“Hah!” Mother said. “Sly and sneaky 
and brazen — ” 

“Oh, M-mother — you don’t think—” 
Egbert said. 

“My poor little Millie!” Mother’s 
arms were protectingly around the sob- 
bing Millie now. “Don’t cry, Millie.” 

“Now you look here,” Egbert said. 

“You — you’re just a b-brute,” Millie 
said. Her brimming eyes flashed at him 
and then she buried her face again 
against Mother’s broad chest. 

“Come on, Millie, dear,” Mother 
cooed. “He isn’t worth it.” 

“Look here, you two — ” They were at 
the bedroom door when Egbert pulled 
himself together enough to issue an ul- 
timatum. “You come back here, Millie. 
If you go out that door you’ll be sor- 
ry.” 

The door slammed. The battlefield 



held only Egbert, sitting on the bed 
telling himself he was victorious, which 
of course was idiotic. 

A lone in bed, ready for sleep with 
the light out, all the snappy things 
he could have said to Mother came read- 
ily into his mind. The trouble had been 
that there was something hypnotic 
about Mother. That, of course, was Mil- 
lie’s trouble. Egbert was a logical man. 
He could see it all now, clearly. 

The whole pattern of Millie’s life had 
been utter dependence, her gaze turned 
trustingly upward to the Oracle. Com- 
pletely appealingly feminine, Millie nat- 
urally was not an independent thinker. 
Her very qualities of sweetness, shy 
helplessness and dependence, which had 
so appealed to Egbert, were now work- 
ing against him. 

At dav/n Egbert fitfully slept and 
dreamed of Medusa — and it wasn’t Per- 
seus but Egbert, who sneaked up on Me- 
dusa while she slept and cut off her 
head. 

The quarrel got patched up, of 
course. Egbert apologized. Millie wept 
and came back to the bedroom where 
she belonged. But somehow it seemed a 
hollow victory for Egbert. Mother’s 
protective instinct had now been fully 
aroused and three days later two of 
her trunks arrived by air-express from 
Chicago. Certainly Egbert couldn’t miss 
feeling that domestically his efforts 
were in bad shape. The great problem 
of Mother unquestionably was further 
from solution than ever. 

Then, like a miracle, Egbert had a 
stroke of luck. What he could do about 
Mother became crystal clear. It was his 
work that suggested it to him. His work 
now needed a change of locale. Gravity 
had yielded up almost its last mystery. 
He needed now a large and secret lab- 
oratory-workshop. That wasn’t practi- 
cal here in New York and obviously he’d 
have to move somewhere else. What 
could be nicer, killing two birds with 
one stone? 

Egbert went to his Chief. “I’m taki^ig 



136 FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE 



an extended vacation,” Egbert said. 
“I’ve been working too hard.” 

“Swell,” his Chief said. “Have a good 
time.” 

“Without pay, of course,” Egbert 
said. 

It was convenient that Egbert had 
plenty of money. He transferred an even 
two million from his bank to the Mt. 
Everest National. Anyone can do things 
with neatness and dispatch with the 
help of money. 

After a week of telephoning, and the 
full-time labors of the Director of the 
Mt. Everest Bank, Egbert had located 
what he wanted — a nice' isolated little 
house with plenty of empty land where 
the workshop-lab could be built. 

Mt. Everest, of course, with its Astro- 
nomical Observatory and all, was too 
populous. This was a neighboring peak 
in the more secluded Himalayas — and 
it had just the one little empty stone 
house on it. Already Egbert’s materials 
were winging their way there. His 
skilled technicians were hired, sworn to 
secrecy and preparing to go. 

There was a minor crisis at home 
even though Egbert distorted the facts 
a little as he explained that he was tak- 
ing Millie with him on a brief three or 
four-day trip out to California and back 
on Government business. But he finally 
put it over. 

Millie went and Mother stayed in the 
47th Floor cubby-apartment, busy with 
new improvements, which she’d have 
ready to show them when they returned. 
Egbert agreed very graciously to pay 
the cost of the improvements. 

Millie was entranced by the gorgeous 
view as they flew over the towering 
Himalayas. It reminded her of their 
honeymoon. 

“Sure does,” Egbert agreed. He land- 
ed their aircar on the wild crags of the 
rocky peak. “And look at the little 
house that’s here, Millie. Just for us, 
nestling in the clouds. We’re spending 
a night here — just like the honeymoon.” 

“Egbert, you darling!” 

But naturally, after two or three 



nights, Millie couldn’t help but notice 
Egbert’s chartered planes constantly ar- 
riving. Loaded with his technicians and 
raw materials they came winging in 
through the clouds almost hourly. 
Across the crags a quarter of. a mile 
away a veritable beehive of building ac- 
tivity was springing up. 

Millie was puzzled. “Egbert, dear, 
what’s going on?” 

Then Egbert told her. “My work 
needs, me Millie. We’ll be here quite a 
time. Can’t tell how long right now. 
Nice — eh, Millie?” He held her in his 
arms and kissed her, which is always 
good technique when you impart star- 
tling news. 

“Egbert!” Millie gasped. “Why, you 
— you’ve practically abducted me!” 

“Well — yes,” Egbert admitted. “How 
could I help it? I love you so much.” He 
kissed her a lot more to prove it. That 
sort of thing is alw'ays apt to go over 
big. Especially with Millie, it did. 

“Oh, Egbert, you — you’re just dar- 
ling.” 

I T was nearly two hours before Millie 
thought of Mother. “She might want 
to visit us,” Millie said. “She’s deathly 
afraid of airplanes. I guess it must be 
a long trail up the mountain. How’ll she 
come — by palanquin?” 

“There isn’t any trail up the moun- 
tain,” Egbert said. 

What more could a man want? Work 
that was inspiring, a loving wife who 
was a good cook, a little home minus 
Mother. It was heavenly. And now Eg- 
bert’s work progressed more speedily 
than ever. In a few weeks, yielding to 
his determined, final attacl^ the last 
mystery of gravitational force was dis- 
pelled. 

Then presently Egbert was beginning 
to dismiss the workmen. They were 
sworn to secrecy but at most they knew 
only the routine technological stuff. 
Egbert installed all the anti-gravita- 
tional apparatus himself. 

Of course, weeks earlier when the 
radiophone had just been connectedf 



SCIENCE 

Millie had called New York to inform 
Mother that she and Egbert were still 
alive. What Mother said wasn’t im- 
portant. Egbert never bothered to ask. 

Everything was lovely and soon the 
world would ring v/ith praises of young 
Professor Egbert Hale — the greatest 
scientist of his day beyond question. Eg- 
bert was telling the awed Millie some- 
thing like that one night when the door 
buzzer sounded, which was surprising 
because all the workmen now had gone. 

Egbert opened the door upon a tall, 
gaunt and angular figure — a parka-clad 
nemesis standing there, grimly smiling 
with secret triumph. 

“Mother!” Millie squealed. 

“Hello, Millie, dear — hello, Egbert,” 

, Mother said sweetly. “I always thought 
I was afraid of airplanes, wasn’t that 
silly of m.e? The trip was wonderful.” 

Mother had come for a Visit. 

Many a man of genius has been in- 
spired by the lash of desperation. Eg- 
bert’s final and greatest inspiration 
came to him now, came like a bolt of 
glowing electrons, rushing out of the 
darkness of his despair. He didn’t take 
any chances by waiting. When Mother 
was asleep that night he crept with the 
wondering Millie out of the little stone 
house. 

“Egbert, dear, where are we going?” 

“Something I want to show you, Mil- 
lie. A present for you. Wait’ll you see. 
You’ll love it.” 

It was all equipped, ready and waiting 
in the center of the big laboratory- 
workshop. 

“A space-flyer, Millie. See, I wanted 
to show the world the big advantages of 
my anti-gravity method over the con- 
ventional rocket-style stuff — so I made 
mine as different as I could.” 

It was certainly different. Under an 
enclosing, transparent pressure-dome, 
set upon a half acre of metal slab, a 
little cottage stood complete with a tiny 
garden around it. 

“Oh, Egbert, how cute!” 

“You bet.” 

It was wonderfully equipped. Millie 



CAN WAIT 137 

of course wasn’t interested in the pres- 
sure and ventilating systems, the air- 
renewers, the tiny lab where water and 
foods could be synthetically made, in ad- 
dition to the fresh vegetables which even 
now were sprouting in the garden. 

Egbert concentrated on the vitamized, 
irradiated bath, the radarange, the 
tasteful furnishings. Indeed, domes- 
tically, the 47th floor cubby back in New 
York had nothing on this. Millie was 
entranced as they inspected it. “Oh, 
Egbert, it’s just darling!” 

“You bet. Let’s take a little trial spin 
in it. Let’s go up a mile or so just to 
be sure everything works all right.” 
Everything worked fine. Egbert rolled 
back the laboratory roof, disclosing the 
sparkling panoply of stars in the 
Himalayan sky. With the space-flyer’s 
pressure-ports closed, the anti-gravity 
plates faintly hummed underneath the 
little house and garden — anti-gravity 
force thrusting downward and normal 
Earth-gravity pull maintained in the 
dome-space above. 

They stirred, lifted, smoothly, silently 
slid up and up and up. At fifty miles up, 
looking out through the enveloping 
transparency of the dome, the view from 
the easy chairs on their little front 
porch was beautiful. At a_ hundred miles 
up it was even finer. 

The trial spin was obviously a great 
success. “Maybe we’d better be getting 
back, don’t you think?” Millie said at 
last. They were now about five hundred 
miles up. 

“We’re not going back,” Egbert said. 
He demonstrated every word with a 
kiss. “We’re going to travel around for 
quite a while, Millie.” 

“Egbert, you — you’ve abducted me 
again!” 

“You bet,” Egbert said. “A nice long 
honeymoon because I love you so much.” 
“Oh, Egbert, you darling.” 

Of course it’s a horrible feast of Tan- 
talus for the world of science. Earth has 
two satellites now — the Moon and Eg- 
bert. With even a moderatesize telescope 
you can see the tiny dot sometimes as he 



goes past. He’s about a hundred and 
twenty thousand miles out — roughly 
half as far as the Moon. 

With power shut off, just coasting, his 
orbit has stabilized and astronomers 
have calculated its elements. He goes 
around the Earth once every nine days.- 
His axial rotation is approximately sev- 
enty minutes. 

Beyond informing the world that all 
is well, Egbert’s heliograph mostly has 
been silent. Frantic imploring messages 
from the scientists often flash out to 
him, of co.urse. 

“Come back and tell us how you did 



it. Come back here!” 

Once Egbert answered. “Not on your 
life,” he helioed. 

It will be nice when the world of sci- 
ence has the secret of space-flight and 
adventurous mankind can go exploring. 
Science is impatient. Naturally it wants 
Egbert back but now it flnds itself on 
the horns of a nasty dilemma. 

Medicine has been making great 
strides, especially in the last few dec- 
ades, in staving off the ravages of old 
age, the promotion of longevity. If Sci- 
ence keeps on like that Mother could live 
a long time. 



COSMIC FLASHES 

(Continued from page 6) 



poorest kind of science-fiction story is the simple 
adventure tale, wfith gimmicks or BEMS, which 
could just as easily have taken place in Lower 
Bayonne New Jersey as on Venus. This type 
of story is fortunately, well on its way to ex- 
tinction. 

Much midnight oil is expended in constant 
reading and search for stories we honestly 
feel are too good to be neglected. We’ll continue 
to bring you the best we can find. And we’d like 
to say thanks, at this propitious moment, for the 
enthusiastic support of FANTASTIC STORY 
MAGAZINE which has made possible its ac-' 
celerated schedule. 



LETTERS FROM READERS 

T hese columns are open for opinions from 
readers. Contrary to the ideas held by many, 
you do not have to disagree violently with the 
editor or other fans to be eligible to write. 
You’re free to get off your chest any idea which 
has been bothering you. Ye ed serves as referee 
and reserves the right to stop the fight any time 
cruel and inhuman punishment is being dished 
out. With that, we proceed. 

DILEMMA 

by Francine M. Kaplan 

Dear Mr. Mines : I'm not going to say I like your 
mag- the quarter I spend for it says it better than 
words. I heartily approve of your policy of using 
reprints. I don’t have the money or energy to hunt 



up all the classic.s. Besides, I d rather let you sweat 
over them. If you like them well enough to publish 
them I’ll probably enjoy most of them too. It saves 
me the trouble of wasting time over a lot of junk 
for limited enjoyment. 

The amazing story that was good enough to 
push me to this typewriter with too much to say 
is the VEIL OF ASTELLAR by Leigh Brackett. 
What would an ordinary human being do in such a 
position, Mr. Mines? To have to choose between 
your own child, even a couple of generations re- 
moved, and a very beloved wife ! What a horror 
that would be ! But most important, this story 
brings up a problem humans might have to face 
when (I’m putting it the way I’d like it to be) we 
meet an alien race. To whom should you be loyal? 
A wonderful civilization with a few (to us) unna- 
tural qualities, or your own people with a lot of 
downright rotten ones? I think most people, faced 
with such a situation, especially imaginative ones, 
would go crazy very quickly. Perhaps a woman 
would protect the child, or the race — it is instinc- 
tive. Even if I hadn’t read your note on the 
story (which I always do — makes it more in- 
teresting) I’d have known Leigh Brackett was a 
woman. A man would have had the guy a raving 
idiot. 

Some comments ; I especially like the stories 
about ESP, psychology and emotions. Your covers 
are. striking but the interiors are dull. Well, can’t 
have everything. So long as the stories stay in- 
teresting, I’m happy. 

Any fan clubs around Pittsburgh? Never has a 
fan been so anxious to join. 

Thanks for putting out a good, really good, mag. 
There should be ten times as many . — 1016 Pat- 
terson St., McKeesport, Pa. 

There should, there should. This is a nice 
dilemma you point out. The same idea had oc- 



curved to me often, and is one of the reasons 
the story was chosen. It may turn out to 
be a real problem one day; on a smaller scale 
it is the reason why here on earth some men 
change nationalities and citizenships, and it is 
always a heartbreaking shattering decision to 
make. But it was a good story, particularly 
since it was invested with Leigh Brackett’s 
special magic. 

GEOLOGIC ABERRATION 

by Gregg Calkins 

Dear Sam : Many thanks for SLAN — now I 
know what those four golden strands are on my 
forehead. I've often wondered. They aren’t too 
noticeable because my hair is blond anyhow, but 
they don’t grow much and once when the barber 
almost cut one off it hurt like the dickens, so I 
always cut my hair myself, with a friends aid. I’ve 
never experienced telepathetic signals yet, but per- 
haps that’s because I’ve never really listened or 
been in a position to get any. Thanks to your 
presentation of this story, maybe I can fulfill my 
destiny after all. 

“We are living in a very temporary and abnormal 
interval . . .’’ says Mines after his admittedly very 
brief dip into Geology. How can it be abnormal 
when there is no normalcy? We are, it is true, 
right smack in the middle of the fourth inter- 
glacial period, supposedly waiting for the next 
glaciation. But, do these expanses of ice we have at 
our poles make it an abnormal situation or interval ? 
Can you see how they would not be there by any 
standards, without doing away with the inclination 
of the earth’s axis? And, you add, all we need is 
two degrees annual increase in temperature to melt 
these polar caps. True, but remember that the 
degrees are in Centigrade, not Fahrenheit, and 
that an equal swing the other way would put the 
fourth Ice Age right in our laps. Abnormal, he 
says, because we happen to be in the middle of 
two even greater abnormalities. 

But, the most intriguing idea of all seems to be 
your idea of what you ' consider to be normality. 
Uniformity of temperature without extremes from 
north to south. Forget the geology for a second 
and try some astronomy — it ain’t possible! No? 

Back to the Summer FSM — Stars to Brackett for 
her tale, stripes to Gallun for his. Rest of the 
shorts readable, but no more. And, I sorta hope 
you didn’t write that so-called editorial, Sam — meb- 
be Bix did it. eh? But, no, that would be unfair 
to him. I’m waiting for A MILLION YEARS TO 
CONQUER now, so bye . — 761 Oakley St., Salt 
Lake City 16, Utah. 

Don’t complicate things, Gregg, Bixby didn’t 
write the editorial. Any blame you’ve got, you 
see it’s delivered to the right place. But to 
settle your gripe about the “normal” period of 
earth, which displeases you, let’s repeat; If 
the uniform temperature period lasts some 
250,000,000 years and is then interrupted by an 
ice age which lasts about 30,000 years, after 

[Turn page] 

139 



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which the earth goes right back to the uniform 
temperature period for another 250,000,000 
years and this happens four times, aren’t you 
justified in calling the uniform temperature 
period the “normal” condition? If you are in 
good health, but two or three times a year you 
come down with a cold which lasts a week, 
alter which your body reverts to its prsvious 
cold-free condition, aren’t you justified in calling 
good health your “normal” condition? Or are 
you normal only when you're sniffling ? Leave 
us not split hairs — er — antennae. 

NANCY'S SHARES 

by Nancy Share 

Dear Mr. Mines : Greetings again ! This time 
I’m commenting on the Summer issue of FSM. Got 
a question to ask you, but first, I'll take a little 
time to tell you what I think of the selection of 
stories in this issue. SLAN : Now, 1 know why 
this is classified as a classic. I’m glad I was (am?) 
one of the people reading it for the first time. 
It’s a classic classic. I was quite surprised to read 
such a good sf-f "emotional” story by van Vogt. 

THE HOUSE ON THE VACANT LOT: (is 
this written by Rog Phillips' wife mari. or am I 
wrong??) This story could be called good . . . 
but not by me. The best thing I could say about 
it is ... it was a fairly entertaining 5 minutes 
worth of reading. 

IT’S A DOG'S LIFE: Holy Hannah! THIS 
is a story worthy of being printed??? 

SOMETHING BORROWED: Ahhh, I snorted 
with glee at this one. Hmmm,. so the men of Mars 
are tall, broad-shouldered, with skin to match any 
dress . . . O, Mars here I come ! 

THE VEIL OF ASTELLAR: See what I 

mean about women being able to tear the reader’s 
emotions apart with mere words ? And it isn’t 
just my feminine loyalty that prompts me to say 
this again either. 

And . . . before I give you a chance to ask 
if it’s because I hate men, NO! I think they’re 
the prettiest things this side of Mars. 

Now I come to the question I said I was going 
to ask you. Plere it be : 

"DID YOU GET YOUR EDITORIAL FOR 
THIS ISSUE OF FSM FROM A BOOK I AM 
PRESENTLY IN THE PROCESS OF DE- 
VOURING?? THE BOOK IS ENTITLED: 
BIOGRAPHY OF THE EARTH. WRITTEN 
BY ONE MR. George Gamow.” 

Well? 

Before I leave you, I must tell you that you are 
a highly intelligent editor because you picked Fin- 
lay to illustrate SLAN. Bless you, most honored of 
the current crop of awsome (is that word spelled 
wright, Mr. Mynes?) things known as editors. — 
P.O. Box 31, Dani’iUe, Pemia. 

P. S. Will you ever be able to print any of the 
SHE stories? I’ve never had the chance to read 
any of them, and I’d like to read at least the first 
bo!)lc of the series. 

Broke a rule and left your ratings of the 



stories in the ish. intact. Reason : I thought they 
were funny. If nobody else sees the humor, sue 
me. Ahem, I did not lift the material for that 
editorial from the book you mention. Happened 
to be another book I lifted it from. Glad they 
agree though. Gives Mr. Oopsla Calkins some- 
thing to gnaw his nails about. Drop in any time 
atail, Nancy. 

THE OPPOSITION 

by Don Allgeier 

Dear Mr. Mines : I agree whole-heartedly with 
Mr. Sam Moskowitz, whose letier appeared in the 
last issue. But in your comments on tiie letter 
you again reveal the dosed mind which he criti- 
cized. You find it hard to understand his, or any- 
one else’s viewpoint which differs from yours. And 
you have stated many times that you don’t think 
much of a lot of the old stories. You think science 
fiction is better today than it was ten years ago. 
In fact, you seem to doubt if any of those old 
stories are really worth re-reading now, even 
though you publish some of them in your reprint 
mags. 

You find it very strange that some of your letter 
writers actually want the really old stories. Well, 
I’m one of them too. I disagree with Sam some- 
what on “Death of Iron,” but I’m right in line in 
asking for stories from the Gernsback area — ex- 
clusively. I don't see why you need to print any 
new stories at all. The ones you use are pretty 
punk. Why not use your reprint mags for re- 
prints and put the new stories in your magazines of 
new material? We can read new stories in maga- 
zine after magazine -practically by the ton. But 
the old ones are not only collector’s items ; they 
represent something different, and thus a treat. 1 
wish you’d delve more in to the files of the Gerns- 
back era. 

Some suggestions : “Electropolis,” “Brood of 

Helios,” “Outpost on the Moon,” “VIoon Conquer- 
ors,” “Ark of the Covenant,” "Revolt of the Scient- 
ists.” Reprint “The Man Who Awoke” complete. 
And give us short stories by Juve, Vincent, Ed- 
wards, Hilliard, and other old-timers. 

I’m afraid it’s true — what Sam said ; If you 
don’t like it, print it because your readers will. — 
1023 W. San Antonio Street, San Marcos, Texas. 

Okay, I heard you. That makes you and 
-Sam and his cousin Jack a majority of three. 
If I’ve got a closed mind it’s from reading so 
many old st — classics that it has given me a 
permanent loop to starboard. But don’t think 
we’re ignoring you and your cheering section, 
Don, perish forbid. We’ll read the stories you 
suggest. Trust us to make a decision, or do 
you just want us to print them all without 
even reading them? 

LONG REMEMBER 
by I. K. Bach 

Dear Sir : I have your summer edition of Fan- 



tastic Stories, containing a reprint of SLAN by 
A. E. Van Vogt. Do you happen to know if 
Arthur Train’s “Moon Maker” has been repub- 
lished? It appeared in Cosmopolitan. Magazine 
back in 1917, or some such, along with Robert W. 
Chambers’ thrillers. 

This was a remarkable story, as you may re- 
member. Mr. Train had a collaborator who knew 
his scientific possibilities. Even at that early date, 
Uranium was to be used as fuel, and if my 
memory serves, the Peltier effect for cooling. If 
it hasn’t been republished, you might be interested. 

— Box 121 Canal St. Station, New York 13, New 
York. 

Have never heard of anyone republishing the 
Train story, though Sam Moskowitz might 
know'. Will check and see if it is available, 
though as a rule it’s not too easy to get reprint 
rights from a slick magazine. 

PARLER DU DIABLE 

by Jack Moskowitz 

Dear Mr. Mines ; I am writing this in regard to 
a letter published in the Spring 1952 issue of 
FANTASTIC STORY MAGAZINE by Sam 
Moskowitz of Newark. I agree with Sam 100%. 
The old stories are better than the new ones. 
Though I have been reading science fiction for a 
year or so, the old stories still appeal to me more 
than the new ones. 

The original short stories in the latest FSM were 
better than average and far superior to the ones 
you have been using in the magazine up till now. 

A Miss Lillian Carroll had a letter in CE which 
said, and 1 quote, “I can buy all the old second- 
hand magazines I want.” I wonder if Miss Carroll 
has any idea at all how much she would have to 
pay for some of these “second-hand magazines” 
in a bookstore and thats if they have what she 
wants. I suppose she doesn’t realize what a bargain 
she's getting w'hen she buys FSM. 

Since nobody knows Jack Vance I am wonder- 
ing if he and Kuttner are one in the same person. 
They both live in California and nobody has ever 
seen Vance as far as I know . — 177 Shephard Ave- 
nue, Neivark 8, New Jersey. 

Just when I thought I had Bill Tuning 
straightened out on that Kuttner-is- Vance mad- 
ness you have to start it here ! No, dag-nab it, 
Kuttner is not Vance. To repeat what I told 
Tuning, Kuttner is in California and Vance is 
in Europe. I had a letter from Kuttner there 
practically the same day I heard from Vance 
in Italy. Heck, their styles aren’t the same at 
all. Doncha read the stories? Thanks for the 
assist with Miss Carroll. 

THE INQUIRING REPORTER 

by Dave Hammond 

Dear Sam Mines; Thfe' Summer issue of FAN- 

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TASTIC STORY QUARTERLY was really 
worthwhile. Like any science fiction fan who dares 
to call himself that I have read SLAN. When I 
do get around to re-reading it (again), though, 
ril probably read it in the other form in which I 
have it. It isn’t just that your version is probably 
cut; it is something else, something deeper. 

Did you ever notice how the format of a 
magazine can effect your appreciation of its con- 
tents? The artwork can do it, the type face can do 
it. For example, a really exotic Hnlay illo for 
what is apparently a fantasy story can send me 
right into it. Rogers has just about the same 
effect in another mag. Consider Amazing Stories. 
I’ve been.,reading that from the middle of ’47, and, 
rather liking it. In the middle of ’49, they changed 
printers, the paper became coarser, there were 
more typographical errors, and their type face 
changed. Then the stories dropped in quality (Or 
1 became a little more mature) and the change 
was mixed with the type face. Now — Galaxy has 
that same type face, making it an effort for me to 
read the tiling, I guess you’d call this a psychologi- 
cal conditioning. 

The magazines you edit are well set up. Back in 
’SO or so, your mags were about taller. The 
reduction in size teas a good idea. It gave more of 
a feeling of — well — delicacy to the magazine. 

As to this Hornstein character : how can he say 
that all the 2Sd magazines are equal in quality? 
Mines works hard to get the best authors, the 
best artists ; Merwin has worked hard before him, 
introducing such names as de Camp, Leiber, and 
van Vogt to the readers. Yet, this person can 
compare all this work, this effort to magazine 
editors who seem to take things easy and leave all 
the writing in their magazines to house hacks ! 
Really, Hornstein, where’s your sense of propor- 
tion? It seems like these adolescents are all alike — 
and some people want to .give the right to vote to 
eighteen year olds! 

The best thing for me was Leigh Brackett’s 
VEIL OF ASTELLAR. I never had a chance 
to gel it in its first publication, but read it eagerly 
on second. It’s a good story, well-written. Brackett 
is quite an authoress. Just one word or mention of 
Jekkara or any other Martian city and I'm read- 
ing right away. When are we going to get another 
.story like SEA KINGS OF MARS? STAR- 
MEN OF LLYRDIS was darned good, but what 
wouldn’t I give to smell the sweet air blowing in 
from the Sea of Morning Opals on Venus or the 
dryness and evil of the Low-Canals of Mars? In 
place of a new novel, you might try reprinting 
SHADOW OVER MARS in FSM. True, it has 
been reprinted in England in pocket book form, 
but it hasn't been too widely distributed in America. 

Speaking of reprints : Considering the attitudes 
of Street and Smith, how did you ci'er get reprint 
rights to SLAN? Remember all the trouble Galaxy 
had with NEEDLE? Come on, Mr. Mines, thi.s 
sounds interesting. How did you get SLAN? 

One further note. Your next FSM choice is A 
MILLION YEARS TO CONQUER. I’ve read 
it (October ’40 SS, wasn’t it?) and it is a highly 
enjoyable story and appropriate for the lead spot. 
Bravo . — Box 89. Runnemede , Neve Jersey. 

All this flattery could easily go to our head, 
but we’ll resist. SHADOW OVER MARS will 



sure stand reprinting some day, but it’s a little 
too recent, don’t you think? Bow’d we get 
SLAN? 

Pure genius, I guess. 

STF MOVIES 

by J. Cunningham 

Dear Editor ; 1 read, with considerable interest, 
your editorial in the Spring issue of Fantastic Story 
Magazine — and can vouch for its accuracy. It is 
possible many fans recall Science-Fiction movies 
which have been produced in European countries. 
Reasoning would have us believe the standard of 
quality used in these movies would, indicate an 
equal quality of S-F stories. The prerequisite of 
a good Stf movie is threefold: 1. Scenery (lavish 

&■ higii quality ) 2. Plot ( of mighty scope & dis- 
tance) 3. Actors (leading character & extras well 
VC! sed in the expression of feeling required to 
produce such a movie). Europe, with its cheap 
labor and cost of living, can accomplish more in 
meeting these requirements than the United States. 
Consequently — most movies of this type which 
emanate from Europe meet with approval of the 
greater number of Stf fans in the USA. In con- 
tra.st — : USA movies of tliis nature lack lavish 
scenery (props, area of activity,) due to the high 
cost of such in the USA. The same is true of 
actors and the plot is usually “thin” to fit in with 
the limitations. 

While France lias no great "fantasy writers", 
she does have some great stories available in that 
language. It comes as no surprise, but a feeling of 
great satisfaction, to know that today many of the 
outstanding US & English science fiction stories 
are being reprinted in tlie French language so that 
the citizens there may enjoy this excellent field of 
entertainment. Printed in book form — these stories 
have proven an enormous success in France. 

Your selections for reprint are desirable. . . . and 
outstanding. Desirable — because they fill a “gap” 
in both the “Library Collection,” and reading needs 
of the greater majority of Stf readers. Outstand- 
ing — because they are the very best that has been 
written since the advent of enjoyable stf reading 
material 

My sincerest thanks for a job well done. May FS 
eontirme to prosper and grow in distribution. — 
Cocoa, Florida. 

Hollywood, despite its commercialism and 
inevitable corny melodrama, can do a superb 
technical job, as already evidenced by DES- 
TINATION MOON, WHEN WORLDS 
COLLIDE and the superior DAY THE 
EARTH STOOD STILL. The current boom 
in science fiction should result in some very 
interesting technical achievements from Holly- 
wood. With more money to spend than Euro- 
pean producers they should be able to go all out 
on sets and props which are so important in 
stf movies. 

I have heard there are currently 17 storie,s in 
the, works at Hollywood. 



142 



MAD HANE 

by HeiMy Moskowitz 

Mines Dear Sam: Well, it seems that the good 
Lord has seen fit to fulfill one of my fondest 
wishes — to see a story by Mari Wolf in print. Lo, 
and here it is. And it was good, too. There was 
nothing new or original about it, but it was good, 
solid writing — something I would expect from Mrs. 
Roger P. Graham. You know who he is — Rog 
Phillips. That’s news to you? Tsk, Sara, tsk! I 
remember Rog once saying, “Someday I hope to 
be known simply as the husband of Mari Wolf.” 
Fat chance of that ever happening, huh? I hope you 
get enough mail commenting favorably on THE 
HOUSE ON THE VACANT LOT to warrant 
you buying many more of Mari’s stories. 

On beginning her story on page 92 and gazing 
at the picture on the opposite page, I was contented. 
After beginning the second page, 1 w'as mad. Here 
is part of the description of the girl in the story; 
. . . incredibly bony . . . short yellow tunic . . . 
thonged sandals . . . topheavy mask of thick pur- 
ple eyeshadow and no lipstick . . . black hair cut 
in straight bangs across a too low forehead . . . 
hair piled on top of her head. Boy! Was I mad, 
for sure I This dame didn’t look like the one in 
the illo. Of course, I must admit that I like 
Lawrence’s babe better. Upon reading further, I 
found another girl entering the story, and . . . she 
seemed like the illo. Now I know what the illo 
represented. Everything is alt straightened out 
now, Sam, so you can stop worrying. 

Sure, I know that there are other stories, too. 
What’s this ? Another Mars story by Leigh Brackett 
( still waiting for her new novel. Son, but I can’t 
hold myself back too much longer. If this keeps on. 
I’ll have to come up to your office and read it 
there.) Ray Gallun’s LUNAR PARASITES was 
very good. Gee I All these stories by Daniel Keyes 
floating ’round. Has he quit editing MSF? Was he 
fired? Or did the mag fold? Anyway, he has 
some good stories in the different magazines, and 
I hope to see more, too. 

Sam, FSM has finally got itself a\Ietter depart- 
ment. Before it w^as just a section with some letters, 
but now. Just compare with the first letter column. 
You are so right, the days of ease are over, for 
Moskowitz is here! 

My comments in SS have brought me a small 
measure of fame, so I’ll try it here, too. Hey, 
von Seibel again. Like a phantom, he keeps re- 
curring. I think that I’m building up an immunity 
to him, though. If McNeil is interested in out- 
of-state fen. look me up. Allgeier, you and I see 
I to I. This does. I’m going to sub to Calkins’s 
Oopsla ; maybe then he’ll stop writing. By the time 
this sees print (Sure it wall. I’m blackmailing 
Sam), you’ll have my buck, Gregg. 

Well, Sam the Fan- Vet Convention was fun. 
It seems to this humble soul that a new definition 
of “fan” has arisen. Among other things, I see 
that you had more to say during the panel ques- 
tioning period than all the others combined, but 
from you that was expected. In fact, I would 
have been disappointed if you had done otherwise. 
— Three Bridges^ N. J. 

Certainly the picture was of the beautiful gal. 

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You didn’t think we’d waste Lawrence on the 
skinny one, did you ? Daniel Keyes was not 
fired. Didn’t you ever hear of an editor writing 
stories in his spare time ? Were you at the 
Fan-Vet convention? Don’t remember seeing 
you. Of course I was my usual modest, 
self-effacing self. Shouldn’t be tongue-tied, I 
know, but 1 couldn’t find a thing to say. 

COLLECTOR'S ITEM 
by Calvin Thos. Beck 

Dear SaMines : First off, heaps of congrats to 
you, dear editor, for bringing SLAN once more into 
the fold. Though I read it twice in its former 
magazine form, followed by its book rendition, it 
was just as easy re-reading it over again as it was 
the first time. Doubtlessly this will make many a 
jen glee with joy considering the fabulous prices 
being asked for SLAN in mag. or book form. The 
average value is about $6.00 for the magazine 
version alone, with the book edition as high as 
$10.00. . . . Obviously the Summer ’52 copy of 
F.S. will be a cherished collector’s item in three 
or four years hence. 

The supporting roster of stories, however, wasn’t 
quite as prepossessing as have been most former 
issues. It would be far better to keep F.S. re- 
stricted to reprints. .Sez I : reprints in reprint mags, 
and original stories in non-reprint mags. This is a 
subtle hint for ya’ not to make another take-off 
as you recently did in a current issue of S. S. 
by putting old yarns in a mag. never known for 
reprints (referring to Williamson’s DRAGON’S 
ISLAND). 

I liked your little psychiatric dissertation, A 
PILL FOR DR. FREUD. More, if you please. 
Though it may not be tacked on the front door 
at Yale or Flarvard, it’s the sort of thing that 
provides food for thought. However, if I can add 
my two cents’ worth, I would like to aver that I 
am afraid pills or any .such form of so-called 
medical or psychiatric treatment may never be 
the answer to any mental problem. 

Society and the white collar class as a majority 
are slowly undergoing strenuous mental exertions 
in everyday life. This common mental strain is the 
very thing from which so many of our psychotic 
or mental cases stem. By eliminating the very 
common root and cause of disturbance we will be 
able to conquer most of our mentally deranged 
cases, or cut a large percentage of potential psy- 
chopaths from our future lists. 

The source of most of our mental cases is EN- 
VIRONMENT. We may never gain Utopia but I 
can’t see why it should be impossible to find a happy 
medium or quasi-Utopia. 

Take New York City or Boston as an example 
of an “unhappy medium.” Some four to five mil- 
lion people of the white collar or laboring class 
are up in the morniiag and at work by 8 ;30 or 
9 :00 ; eat a so-called lunch by 12 which alone 
could inspire the most soporific advertising man to 
classical displays on bicarb and ulcer ads ; later 
experience the horror of packing themselves into 
odorous buses or subways for the homeward crush. 
Its sordid and nerve-wrecking. 

What’s the answer? Decentralization. Wash- 



144 



iiigton D. C. is, with all its imperfections, a 
better example of a city and its suburbs well laid 
out. 

Don Martin : I agree with you regarding the 
alleged FORTRAN SOCIETY and Tiffany 
Thayer’s capers. This messy aggregation has prob- 
ably done more to hurt Fort’s work than any other 
group could. Fort is great stuff without Thayer’s 
mumbo-jumbo cultist ambitions. — 84-16 Elmhurst 
Ave., Elmhurst 73, L. I. 

Hardly a man now alive would disagree with 
you about the pernicious influence of over- 
crowding, or even of the mad pace of modern 
life. New York City is steadily losing popula- 
tion to the suburbs. But this does not solve the 
problem ; in fact it makes it worse for the aver- 
age commuter who has to rush even more to 
make that long ride twice a day. Decentraliza- 
tion will become a reality when a man’s work is 
decentralized as much as his living quarters, 
so that he does not have to travel in to a central 
spot daily. Washington, though a gorgeous city, 
has terrible transportation problems, since its 
commuters all jam into buses and street cars 
and cabs, without even a subway to help. 

Well, so much for sociology. See you all next 
time just two months from now. 

—THE EDITOR. 



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have checked at the right and enroll me in the 
Adveniuit: Book Chib, 

Alho send me my first r«‘i^?lar selection at $1, 
tnlns a few cen?s sbiDPinp cost. I am to receive 
frt'e the Club Bulhtin. "Advenlurt TraiU.'* so 
K mao’ dwide in advance which future selections 
i warn to accept. I need take only Itiuj books a 
year om of tbe 24 action novels that will be of- 
fered, and I pay only the bargaiii pri<^ of $I 
esich. plus few cents shipping, for books I accspl. 



AiiJisjms: - 

„ 

fTHm^OFFEB G00B~(5 Ey IN THE U. ӣ) 



□ Ksurt ttfc iiU 

□ I mjk- 

□ Tin®: ifSk 

□ Sstf giisisfa ■ 

□ The lecsfsid 
$aiht 

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If not delighted, re 
turn, all books within 
? days and this meni? 
bership w'll bts can* 
celled.